They called the boy Jurgen.

They called the boy Jurgen.

    "It must certainly be a Jewish child, its skin is so dark," the

people said.

    "It might be an Italian or a Spaniard," remarked the clergyman.

    But to the fisherman's wife these nations seemed all the same, and

she consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as a

Christian.

    The boy throve; the noble blood in his veins was warm, and he

became strong on his homely fare. He grew apace in the humble cottage,

and the Danish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language.

The pomegranate seed from Spain became a hardy plant on the coast of

West Jutland. Thus may circumstances alter the course of a man's life!

To this home he clung with deep-rooted affection; he was to experience

cold and hunger, and the misfortunes and hardships that surround the

poor; but he also tasted of their joys.

    Childhood has bright days for every one, and the memory of them

shines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources of

pleasure and enjoyment; the coast for miles and miles was full of

playthings, for it was a mosaic of pebbles, some red as coral or

yellow as amber, and others again white and rounded like birds' eggs

and smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes'

skeletons, the water plants dried by the wind, and seaweed, white

and shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones- all these

seemed made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy's thoughts,

and he had an intelligent mind; many great talents lay dormant in him.

How readily he remembered stories and songs that he heard, and how

dexterous he was with his fingers! With stones and mussel-shells he

could put together pictures and ships with which one could decorate

the room; and he could make wonderful things from a stick, his

foster-mother said, although he was still so young and little. He

had a sweet voice, and every melody seemed to flow naturally from

his lips. And in his heart were hidden chords, which might have

sounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere else

than in the fisherman's hut by the North Sea.

    One day another ship was wrecked on the coast, and among other

things a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was washed ashore.

Some were put into saucepans and cooked, for they were thought to be

fit to eat, and others lay and shrivelled in the sand- they did not

accomplish their purpose, or unfold their magnificent colours. Would

Jurgen fare better? The flower bulbs had soon played their part, but

he had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his

friends noticed in what a monotonous, uniform way one day followed

another, for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itself

was a great lesson-book, and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calm

or storm- the crested wave or the smooth surface.

    The visits to the church were festive occasions, but among the

fisherman's house one was especially looked forward to; this was, in

fact, the visit of the brother of Jurgen's foster-mother, the

eel-breeder from Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in a

cart, painted red with blue and white tulips upon it, and full of

eels; it was covered and locked like a box, two dun oxen drew it,

and Jurgen was allowed to guide them.