A STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS [2]
and thus it
was long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.
It was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun was
shining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissum
was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churches
there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like a
piece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not
be disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bells
are hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and the
congregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree or
bush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not
placed a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same
now. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank
grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole churchyard;
here and there a grave has a sort of monument, a block of half-decayed
wood, rudely cut in the shape of a coffin; the blocks are brought from
the forest of West Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and
the inhabitants find beams, and planks, and fragments which the
waves have cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by
loving hands on a child's grave, and one of the women who had come out
of the church walked up to it; she stood there, her eyes resting on
the weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments afterwards her
husband joined her. They were both silent, but he took her hand, and
they walked together across the purple heath, over moor and meadow
towards the sandhills. For a long time they went on without speaking.
"It was a good sermon to-day," the man said at last. "If we had
not God to trust in, we should have nothing."
"Yes," replied the woman, "He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a
right to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been five
years old if we had been permitted to keep him."
"It is no use fretting, wife," said the man. "The boy is well
provided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to."
They said nothing more, but went out towards their houses among
the sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the houses where the
sea grass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, what
seemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushed
between the hills, hurling the particles of sand high into the air;
another gust, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped and
beat violently against the walls of the cottage; then everything was
quiet once more, and the sun shone with renewed heat.
The man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon taken
off their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying over the dunes
which stood there like great waves of sand suddenly arrested in
their course, while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluish
stalks spread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours also
came out, and helped each other to draw the boats higher up on the
beach. The wind now blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when
they went back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stones
blew into their faces. The waves rose high, crested with white foam,
and the wind cut off their crests, scattering the foam far and wide.
Evening came; there was a swelling roar in the air, a wailing or
moaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that sounded above
the thunder of the waves. The fisherman's little cottage was on the
very margin, and the sand rattled against the window panes; every
now and then a violent gust of wind shook the house to its foundation.
It was dark, but about midnight the moon would rise. Later on the
air became clearer, but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with
undiminished fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but in
such weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there
was a tapping at the window; the door was opened, and a voice said:
"There's a large ship stranded on the farthest
was long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.
It was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun was
shining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissum
was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churches
there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like a
piece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not
be disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bells
are hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and the
congregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree or
bush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not
placed a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same
now. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank
grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole churchyard;
here and there a grave has a sort of monument, a block of half-decayed
wood, rudely cut in the shape of a coffin; the blocks are brought from
the forest of West Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and
the inhabitants find beams, and planks, and fragments which the
waves have cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by
loving hands on a child's grave, and one of the women who had come out
of the church walked up to it; she stood there, her eyes resting on
the weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments afterwards her
husband joined her. They were both silent, but he took her hand, and
they walked together across the purple heath, over moor and meadow
towards the sandhills. For a long time they went on without speaking.
"It was a good sermon to-day," the man said at last. "If we had
not God to trust in, we should have nothing."
"Yes," replied the woman, "He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a
right to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been five
years old if we had been permitted to keep him."
"It is no use fretting, wife," said the man. "The boy is well
provided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to."
They said nothing more, but went out towards their houses among
the sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the houses where the
sea grass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, what
seemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushed
between the hills, hurling the particles of sand high into the air;
another gust, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped and
beat violently against the walls of the cottage; then everything was
quiet once more, and the sun shone with renewed heat.
The man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon taken
off their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying over the dunes
which stood there like great waves of sand suddenly arrested in
their course, while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluish
stalks spread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours also
came out, and helped each other to draw the boats higher up on the
beach. The wind now blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when
they went back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stones
blew into their faces. The waves rose high, crested with white foam,
and the wind cut off their crests, scattering the foam far and wide.
Evening came; there was a swelling roar in the air, a wailing or
moaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that sounded above
the thunder of the waves. The fisherman's little cottage was on the
very margin, and the sand rattled against the window panes; every
now and then a violent gust of wind shook the house to its foundation.
It was dark, but about midnight the moon would rise. Later on the
air became clearer, but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with
undiminished fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but in
such weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there
was a tapping at the window; the door was opened, and a voice said:
"There's a large ship stranded on the farthest