It was a middling year--a good year; once again it was
seen that potatoes didn't care so much about the weather, but grew up
all the same, and could stand a deal. A middling year--a good year
... well, not perhaps, if they worked it out exactly, but that they
couldn't do this year. A Lapp had passed that way one day and said how
fine their potatoes were up there; it was much worse, he said, down in
the village.
And now Isak had a few weeks more to work the ground before the frost
set in. The cattle were out, grazing where they pleased; it was good
to work with them about, and hear the bells, though it did take some
of his time now and again. There was the bull, mischievous beast,
would take to butting at the lichen stacks; and as for the goats, they
were high and low and everywhere, even to the roof of the hut.
Troubles great and small.
One day Isak heard a sudden shout; Inger stood on the door-slab with
the child in her arms, pointing over to the bull and the pretty little
cow Silverhorns--they were making love. Isak threw down his pick and
raced over to the pair, but it was too late, by the look of it.
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