Karl Oskar picked up his youngest son and held him gently in his arms. It wasn’t his oldest but rather his youngest child he wanted to show to his visitor; this little tyke was two-and-a-half and the only one of his brats born in America, the only one of his family who was a citizen of this country, he told Olausson. His youngest son was an American, almost the only one among the Swedish settlers in this valley. He had been baptized with the name Danjel but had already lost half of it — they called him Dan, a more suitable name for an American.
The Helsinge farmer patted the little American on the head. The boy, in fright, glared at the stranger.
“I’m Uncle Petrus, and you are Mr. Dan Nilsson. Isn’t that right, boy? You were born here and you can become President of the United States. Neither your father nor I can be President, we’re only immigrants. .”
Karl Oskar laughed, but his youngest son did not rejoice in the great future that opened before him. He began to bawl, loudly and fiercely, and clung to his father’s neck with both arms.
“He’s shy, hasn’t seen any strangers,” said Karl Oskar.
Johan felt neglected and pulled his father by the pant leg: “We saw a snake, Dad!”
“A great big’un!” added Lill-Marta, all out of breath.
“A green-striped adder, Dad!”
“He crawled under the house. .!”
“Well, snake critters will crawl out with the spring heat,” said the visitor. “Better be careful, kids!”
Four-year-old Harald stood with his index finger in his mouth and stared at the strange man who had come home with Father. Harald ran about without pants; the only garment on his little body was an outgrown shirt, so short that it reached only to his navel. Below the shirt hem the boy was naked and his wart-like little limb pointed out naked and unprotected.
Petrus Olausson quickly took his eyes from the child as if uncomfortably affected.
“Lost your pants, did you, little Harald?” asked the father.
“Mother took them. . she’s patching. .”
“He tore a big hole in his pants,” volunteered Johan.
“Poor boy — has to show all he has. .”
Karl Oskar was holding his youngest son on his right arm; he now picked up his pantless son on his left. Sitting there some of the little one’s nakedness was covered. It seemed as if the sight of the child’s male member had disturbed Petrus Olausson; he no longer looked like a mild “Uncle Petrus.” Did he pay attention to what a four-year-old showed? The child could have gone entirely naked, as far as that was concerned.
“The kids grow awfully fast; they outgrow everything. Hard to keep their behinds covered up.”
Olausson stroked his long beard and said nothing. Karl Oskar felt ashamed before the visitor that his children had to wear rags. They had hardly been able to get any new clothes at all. All four were dressed in outgrown, worn-out garments, patches on patches. After the long winter inside they had been let out in the open again, and now one could see how badly off they were. The bright spring sun revealed everything as threadbare, ragged, torn, shabby.
“I’ve seeded flax — last year, and this year too. The kids will soon have something to cover them.”
“Well, at least they aren’t cold while summer lasts,” commented Olausson, as he threw a look at the father’s own pants, patched over and over again.
Karl Oskar walked ahead to the door with two children in his arms and two at his heels. The door opened from within and Kristina’s head covered with a blue kerchief, appeared.
“You’re late — I almost thought something had happened. .?”
“Yes, Kristina,” said Karl Oskar solemnly. “Something has happened — we have a neighbor now. .”
The Helsinge farmer stepped up and doffed his hat.
“Yes, here comes your neighbor. .”
Perplexed, Kristina remained standing in the door opening. Then she dried her fingers quickly on her apron before she took the guest’s hand. He told her his name and his home parish in Sweden.
“Svensk!!?”
“Still for the most part a Swede, I guess. We’ll be next-door neighbors, Mrs. Nilsson!”
“What a surprise! What a great surprise!”
In her confusion she forgot to ask the visitor to come in. She remained standing on the threshold until Karl Oskar, laughing, wondered if she wanted to keep them out.
Once inside, Kristina welcomed the farmer from Alfta.
“A neighbor! What a welcome visitor!”
Petrus Olausson looked about the cabin with curious eyes, as if to evaluate their belongings.
“Have you made the furnishings yourself, Nilsson?”
“Yeah — a little clumsy. .”
“No! You’re learning from the Americans. Very good! They do things handily.”
Petrus Olausson praised the beds that Karl Oskar had made of split scantlings, fastened to wall and floor; there was something authoritative in his speech and manner, one felt he was a man accustomed to giving advice and commands. There was also a hint of the forty-year-old man talking to the thirty-year-old, but more than their difference in age was the fact that he had been in America four years longer than Karl Oskar.
The Swedish settler had invited Olausson to dinner without knowing what Kristina had to put on the table. She apologized; she had nothing but plain fish soup — boiled catfish. And maple syrup, bread, and milk — not much to offer a guest. It was the time of year when food was scarce: last year’s crops were almost gone and this year’s were still growing.
Karl Oskar remembered they had cooked the last of their potatoes only a few days ago.
“We have a bone of pork left,” said Kristina. “I can make pea soup. But the peas take at least an hour to cook, they’re tough. .”
“Too long,” said Karl Oskar. “We’re hungry. .” But it annoyed him that they had nothing better than fish soup to offer their new neighbor on his first visit.
“I can make mashed turnips for the pork,” said Kristina, thinking over what supplies they had. “We have turnips out in the cellar, they cook quickly.”
Karl Oskar picked up a basket and went to fetch the turnips, accompanied by his guest. He did not want to appear to Olausson as an inexperienced settler; rather, he wanted to show how well he had managed on his claim. He told him that more difficult than obtaining food was protecting it, against heat in summer and frost in winter. To build a cellar of stone as they did in Sweden required an enormous amount of work which he hadn’t had time for yet; he had used another device to protect the vegetables from spoiling. He had dug a ditch for the turnips behind the cabin and covered it with straw and earth. Under such a roof, about ten inches thick, the roots were protected against the coldest winter.
Karl Oskar stopped before a mound and with a wooden fork cleared away the earth and the straw. When he had removed the covering he knelt and bent down over the ditch. The mound had not been opened for a few weeks, and an evil stink filled his nose. An uneasy apprehension came over him. He stuck down his hand and felt for a turnip. He got hold of something soft and slimy. When he lifted his hand into daylight he was holding a dark brown mess with a nasty smell.
“Damn it! The roots are rotten. .”
The older settler stooped down and smelled; he nodded that the turnips were indeed spoiled.
Shamefacedly, Karl Oskar rose. The turnips they had intended to offer their guest for dinner need not be boiled; down there in the ditch the roots were already mashed and prepared, a rotten mess.
“It’s on account of the early heat,” said the guest.
“I forgot to make an air hole,” explained Karl Oskar.
“Your covering is too thick,” said Petrus Olausson authoritatively. “Ten inches is too much — five inches would’ve been about right.”