Growth of the soil was something different, a thing to be
procured at any cost; the only source, the origin of all. A dull and
desolate existence? Nay, least of all. A man had everything; his
powers above, his dreams, his loves, his wealth of superstition.
Sivert, walking one evening by the river, stops on a sudden; there on
the water are a pair of ducks, male and female. They have sighted him;
they are aware of man, and afraid; one of them says something, utters
a little sound, a melody in three tones, and the other answers
with the same. Then they rise, whirl off like two little wheels a
stone's-throw up the river, and settle again. Then, as before, one
speaks and the other answers; the same speech as at first, but mark a
new delight: _it is set two octaves higher_! Sivert stands looking at
the birds, looking past them, far into a dream.
A sound had floated through him, a sweetness, and left him standing
there with a delicate; thin recollection of something wild and
splendid, something he had known before, and forgotten again.
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