Inger Johanne's lively doings

It is certainly comical that I, Inger Johanne, wrote a book[1] a while ago and that it was printed, so I (I!) am an author. Really, it is too funny. I have to laugh whenever I think of it.

But what I wrote was only scribblings, not like a real author’s book; for persons who know how to write can picture everything so vividly that the readers see it clearly in their own minds; and I am very sure that you can’t see our delightful town at all, though my whole book is about how things are there.

You can’t see the little red and yellow houses among the gray rocks; the shining blue water and the big ships ready to start on long voyages, with the sailors hauling up the anchors, while on the hill the wives and children stand waving big handkerchiefs and crying. They even climb Big Rock and stand there until the ship is just a little speck far, far out on the water.

Oh, you can’t know, either, how the fresh wind feels on your cheeks, or how the heather brushes against the bottom of your dress, or how our old house on the hillside looks—or Peter or Karsten——No, I wrote about it all so poorly that you can’t have much idea of any of it.

Before the stories were printed I let Nils and Peter and Karsten and Massa and Mina read them, but I shouldn’t have done that, for I got paid for it well and quickly, I can tell you.

Karsten thwacked me on the head hard, four times, because I had written that he was troublesome. Nils thought I had said too little about him, so he squirted a lot of water right in my face.

Peter, the dean’s son, was mightily offended (and has been ever since) because I told about his father leading him home by the ear. As for Massa and Mina, they thought it was so tedious to read about the children here at home that they would not even finish the stories.

So, you see, you get something besides pleasure when you write a book.

But what do you think? My book was praised in the newspapers! It really was! and I must say that that was exceedingly pleasant.

I had decided that I would never write another book, but I have changed my mind; for when people say I write “so very”—why, of course I want to write.

At one time I thought that to be head milkmaid with a large herd of cows in my care would be the most delightful thing in the world, but now I know I should rather be an author. Hurrah!

Yes—I shout, “Hurrah!” because it has been in the newspaper that “Inger Johanne is full of talent, has humor and is hearty and sound.”

Hearty and sound am I, that is sure, for I have never had anything the matter with me except that time I broke my arm when I thought I should be a circus rider. (I told about that in the other book.)

Every time there was anything in the paper about me when my book first came out, I would take the paper and read the notices aloud to Massa, Mina, and the rest.

“Style, color, and tone are well maintained throughout Inger Johanne’s book,” I read in a loud voice. “And the whole is pervaded by humor that is irresistible.”

While reading, I usually stood on a fence or a rock, and when I finished, I swung the paper out in the air and shouted, “Hurrah!”

Naturally the others made fun of me, but I never bothered myself the least bit about that. I don’t believe you could find in our whole town one single other person who has written a real book. True enough, Candidate Juul has made a French dictionary for schools, but that doesn’t mean that he has talent, as the papers say I have.

However, when the boys and girls laugh at me too much because I talk about my book, I go away from them; but I soon come back, for there is no fun in staying alone, even if you are “full of talent.”

Most people think that nothing very important happens in our town, but we girls and boys always have plenty of fun and excitement, and that is what I’m going to tell you about in a minute. But first I want to tell you about Karsten. He is exactly the same as ever, thinking of awfully queer things to do almost every day. One of his plans was quite a stroke of genius, I must say!

As I walked down-town one morning, I was surprised to see some peasants and town boys in the middle of the market-place where there is almost never anybody. And what do you think I found when I went to see what was going on?

There stood Karsten in the middle of the bunch. He had our smallest bread-basket with Mother’s carving-knife in it, a half-stick of sealing-wax, a tooth-brush I had bought the day before, and a number of other little things from home.

“Why, Karsten! Are you crazy? What are you doing?” I called.

“I’m in business, as you can easily see,” said Karsten grandly. “Go away.”

Imagine it! That foolish child stood there in the market-place actually trying to sell a half-stick of sealing-wax and my new tooth-brush! Some of the other boys had sold postage stamps and buttons, and so of course Karsten wanted to sell something.

You may well believe that I took him home with me in a hurry; and there he got the good scolding from Father that he deserved.

I could write a much longer letter than this, but perhaps I had better not, for I have lately read that the art of writing is to limit yourself, and so I will close at once.

Thank you for liking my book.

INGER JOHANNE.

P. S. My dears, you must be sure to praise this book a little, also, or else I shall be horribly embarrassed and mortified before Massa, Mina, and Peter, and the others.

I. J.