Little Goran and his grandmother lived in a tiny house in Norway, high above the deep waters of a fjord. When Goran was a baby they used to tie one end of a rope around his waist and the other to the door, so that if he toddled over the edge he could be hauled back like a fish on a line. But now he was no longer a baby, but a big boy, six years old, and he tried to take care of his grandmother as a big boy should.

It was a lovely spot in summer, when the waterfalls went pouring down milk-white into the green fjord, sending up so much spray that they looked as if they were steaming hot; when rainbows hung in the sky; when the small steep meadows were bright with wild flowers, and even the sod roof of the cottage was like a little wild garden of harebells and pansies and strawberries that Goran gathered for breakfast sometimes. He was happy all day then, fishing in the fjord, making a little cart for Nanna, the goat, to pull, trying to teach Gustava, the hen, to sing, putting on his fingers the pink and purple hats that he picked from the tall spires of wild foxglove and monkshood, and making them dance and bow, and listening to the loud music of the waterfalls after rain.

And in the evening after supper Goran’s grandmother would tell him splendid stories while they sat together in the doorway making straw beehives, sewing the rounds of straw together with split blackberry briers. The sun would shine on the straw and make it look so yellow and glistening that Goran would pretend he was making a golden beehive for the Queen Bee’s palace. For where Goran lived the sun never sets at all in the middle of summer, and it is bright daylight not only all day, but all night as well. You and I would never have known when to go to bed, but Goran and his grandmother were used to it, and even Gustava, the hen, knew enough to put her head under her wing and make her own dark night.

But with winter, changes came. The flowers slept under the earth until spring’s call should wake them, and yawning and stretching, s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g, they should stretch up into the air and sunlight. The waterfalls no longer flung up clouds of spray like smoke, but built roofs of ice over themselves. And, strangest of all, the winter darkness came, so that the days were like the nights, and you and I would never have known when to get up.

“I must go to the village for our winter supplies before the snow falls and cuts us off,” his grandmother said to Goran one day. “Neighbor Skylstad has offered me a seat in his rowboat to-morrow, and will bring me back the next day. You won’t be afraid to stay here alone, will you, Goran?”

“No, Grandmother,” said Goran. He pretended to be tremendously interested in poking his finger into the earth in a geranium pot, so that his grandmother shouldn’t see that his eyes were full of tears and his lower lip was trembling. For to tell you the truth he was frightened. The little house was so far from any other house, and then Goran had never spent a night alone. Last year when the winter’s supplies were bought, he had gone to the village with his grandfather, and he had told Nanna and Gustava and Mejau, the cat, all about what a wonderful place it was, a thousand times over; the warm shop, with its great cheeses in wooden boxes painted with bright birds and flowers, and its glowing stove, as tall and slim as a proud lady in a black dress, with a wreath of iron ferns upon her head; the other children who had let him play with them while grandfather exchanged the socks and mittens knitted by grandmother for potatoes and candles. And they had slept at the inn under a feather bed so heavy that you would have thought by morning they would have been pressed as flat as the flowers in grandmother’s big Bible. But they weren’t! They got up just as round as ever, and had a wonderful breakfast of dark grayish-brown goats’-milk cheese, cold herring, and stewed bilberries. Grandfather had gone to Heaven since then, and Goran wondered if he could possibly be finding it as delightful as the village.

How he did want to go this time! But of course he knew that some one must stay behind to feed Nanna and Gustava and Mejau, to tend the fire and water the geraniums and wind the clock. So he said as bravely as he could: “I’ll take care of everything, Grandmother.”

Soon after his grandmother left, the snow began to fall. How that frightened Goran! Suppose it snowed so hard that she could never get back to him! For when winter really began, the little house was often up to its chimney in snow, and they could get to no one, and no one could get to them.

How poor little Goran’s heart began to hammer at the thought! He fell to work to make himself forget the snow. First, seizing a broom made of a bundle of twigs, he swept the hard earth floor, which in summer had so pretty a carpet of green leaves, strewn fresh every day by Goran and his grandmother. Then he poured some water on the geraniums in the window, only spilling a little on himself. Then he stroked Mejau, who was purring loudly in front of the fire; and all this made him feel much better.

“Time for dinner, Goran!” said the old clock on the wall. At least it said:

“Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!” which meant the same thing.

So Goran ate the goats’-milk cheese and black bread that his grandmother had left for him; and then, and not before, he summoned up enough courage to look out to see if the snow was still falling.

It was snowing harder than ever, and already everything had a deep fluffy covering. Oh, would his grandmother ever be able to get back to him? But he must be brave, and not cry, for he was six years old. He said a little prayer, as his grandmother had taught him to do whenever he was frightened or unhappy, and his heavy heart grew lighter.

“I’ll make a snowman,” Goran decided. Perhaps then the time would seem shorter. Grandfather and he had made a splendid snowman after the first snowfall last winter.

It was not late enough in the year to have the day as dark as night. It was only as dark as a deep winter twilight, and the white snow seemed to give out a light of its own for Goran to work by.

First he found an old broomstick and thrust it into the snow so that it stood upright. Then he pushed the heavy wet snow around it, patting on here, scooping out there, until there was a body to hold the big snowball he rolled for the head. A bent twig pressed in made a pleasant smile, and for eyes Goran ran indoors and took from the little box that held his treasures two marbles of sky-blue glass that his grandfather had given him once for his birthday.

What a beautiful snowman! With his sky-blue eyes he gazed through the falling snow at little Goran.

“Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!” called the old clock, and that was the same as saying:

“Time for supper, Goran!”

The fire lit up the room with a warm glow, painted the curtains crimson, and made wavering gigantic shadows on the walls. The water bubbled in the pot, and the boiling potatoes knocked against the lid. “Prr-prrr!” said Mejau, blinking in front of the blaze, and the old clock answered:

“Tock! Tick! Tock!”

Goran had given their supper to Nanna and Gustava and Mejau, and had taken one good-night look at his snowman. Now he put his bowl of boiled potatoes on the table in front of the fire, and pulled up his chair.

Lying on the floor where she had fallen from his box when he was getting his snowman’s blue eyes was a playing card, the Queen of Clubs. His grandfather had found it lying in the road in the village, and had brought it home as a present for Goran. The little boy thought the Queen was very splendid, with her crown and her veil, and her red dress trimmed with bands of blue and leaves and stars and rising suns of yellow. In one hand she held on high a little yellow flower. Now he picked her up and put her on a chair beside him, pretending the Queen had come for supper to keep him from being lonely. Each mouthful of potato he first offered her, with great politeness, but the delicate lady only gazed off into space.

Goran’s supper made his insides feel as if a soft blanket had been tucked cozily about them, and he was warm and sleepy.

“Was there anything else Grandmother told me to do before I went to bed?” he murmured.

“Tick! Tock! Yes, there was,” the Clock replied. “She told you to wind me up. Climb on a chair and do it carefully. Don’t shake me. I can’t stand that, for I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“And I want a drink!” cried the youngest geranium, who was little, and had been hidden by the bigger pots when Goran watered them.

Knock, knock, knock!

What a knocking at the door! Goran ran to open it, and the firelight fell on Nanna the Goat and Gustava the Hen against a background of whirling snow. Nanna was wearing Grandmother’s quilted jacket—where in the world had she found that? And Gustava had wrapped Goran’s muffler about herself and the little basket she carried on her wing.

“Good evening!” began Nanna, rather timidly for her. “May Gustava and I come in and sit by the fire? We thought you might be lonely, and then it is so cold in the shed. I did have a muffler like Gustava’s, but I absent-mindedly ate it. I’m growing very absent-minded. We’ve come with an important message for you, but I can’t remember what it is. Can you, Gustava?”

“Cluck! Clu-uck! No, I can’t. But I’ve brought my beautiful child to call on you,” said Gustava; and she lifted her wing and showed Goran the brown egg in her basket.

“Shut the door! Shut the door!” several Geraniums called indignantly. “We are very delicate, and we shall catch our deaths of cold!”

So in came Nanna and Gustava and Gustava’s Egg, and Goran shut the door.

“Present my subjects!” commanded the Queen of Clubs, and Goran saw that she was no longer a little card, but a lady as big as his grandmother. In front she still wore her blue and red and yellow dress, but in back she was all blue, every inch of her, with a pattern of gilt stars, and when she turned sideways she seemed to vanish, for she was only as thick as cardboard. But she was so proud and grand that Goran wished he had on his Sunday suit, with the long black trousers and the short black jacket with its big silver buttons, the waistcoat all covered with needlework flowers, and the raspberry pink neckerchief.

“This is Nanna, our Goat, your Majesty,” he said.

“Goat, you may kiss my hand,” said the Queen.

“I don’t know whether I want to,” replied rude Nanna, who had never been presented to a Queen before, and didn’t know the proper way to behave.

“Mercy on us! What manners!” cried the Geraniums, blushing deep red that the Queen should be spoken to in that manner, in what they thought of as their house.

“But I wouldn’t mind eating your yellow flower,” continued Nanna. “I like to eat flowers.” And she looked at the Geraniums, who nearly fainted.

“Your turn next,” said the Queen to Gustava. She had heard gentlemen say that so often when they were playing Skat with her and her companions that she always repeated it when she could think of nothing else to say.

“Squawk! Cluck!” cried Gustava. “Would your Majesty like to see my beautiful child?” and she showed the Queen her Egg. “Just look, your Majesty! Have you ever seen anything more lovely? Such a pale brown color! Such an innocent expression! Perhaps your Majesty is also a mother?”

“Tick! Tock! Don’t forget to wind me!” said the old Clock.

“Gustava Hen talks too much,” the fat Teapot in the corner cupboard told her daughters the Teacups. “When the Queen speaks to you, just say ‘Yes, your Majesty,’ and ‘No, your Majesty,’ and I dare say she will take you all to Court and find you handsome husbands among the Royal Coffeecups.”