Ch. 7 - Vadstene

In Sweden, it is not only in the country, but even in several of the
provincial towns, that one sees whole houses of grass turf or with
roofs of grass turf; and some are so low that one might easily spring
up to the roof, and sit on the fresh greensward. In the early spring,
whilst the fields are still covered with snow, but which is melted on
the roof, the latter affords the first announcement of spring, with
the young sprouting grass where the sparrow twitters: "Spring comes!"

Between Motala and Vadstene, close by the high road, stands a
grass-turf house--one of the most picturesque. It has but one window,
broader than it is high, and a wild rose branch forms the curtain
outside.

We see it in the spring. The roof is so delightfully fresh with grass,
it has quite the tint of velvet; and close to it is the chimney, nay,
even a cherry-tree grows out of its side, now full of flowers: the
wind shakes the leaves down on a little lamb that is tethered to the
chimney. It is the only lamb of the family. The old dame who lives
here, lifts it up to its place herself in the morning and lifts it
down again in the evening, to give it a place in the room. The roof
can just bear the little lamb, but not more--this is an experience and
a certainty. Last autumn--and at that time the grass turf roofs are
covered with flowers, mostly blue and yellow, the Swedish
colours--there grew here a flower of a rare kind. It shone in the eyes
of the old Professor, who on his botanical tour came past here. The
Professor was quickly up on the roof, and just as quick was one of his
booted legs through it, and so was the other leg, and then half of the
Professor himself--that part where the head does not sit; and as the
house had no ceiling, his legs hovered right over the old dame's head,
and that in very close contact. But now the roof is again whole; the
fresh grass grows where learning sank; the little lamb bleats up
there, and the old dame stands beneath, in the low doorway, with
folded hands, with a smile on her mouth, rich in remembrances, legends
and songs, rich in her only lamb on which the cherry-tree strews its
flower-blossoms in the warm spring sun.

As a background to this picture lies the Vettern--the bottomless lake
as the commonalty believe--with its transparent water, its sea-like
waves, and in calm, with "Hegring," or fata morgana on its steel-like
surface. We see Vadstene palace and town, "the city of the dead," as a
Swedish author has called it--Sweden's Herculaneum, reminiscence's
city. The grass-turf house must be our box, whence we see the rich
mementos pass before us--memorials from the chronicle of saints, the
chronicle of kings and the love songs that still live with the