The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1955, Blaðsíða 23

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
2)
And now I leave that scene and fol-
low the well-trodden path on the
west side of the street. I hear music
coming from the house next door. It
has a soothing spiral effect and lifts
me above all human emotion as I know
one of the beautiful girls who live
there is playing the piano and singing.
Often I think of the beautiful girls
who grew up in that little town. I
never ask about any one individually,
as I like to stretch my imagination to
its heights and find them there . . .
where I know they belong. I pass the
Farmer’s store where a nodding look
gave many a hard lump of sugar candy,
yet, I have no desire to enter the store
and awaken my memories. Perhaps it
is because we were always so welcome
there. There is an air of abundance
and freedom around this place that
leaves no room for longing. This store
is tucked away in my memory not as
a place of business but a home of a
dear friend.
I follow my thoughts to the brow
of the north hill, to gaze on the wide
fields which can hold my attention at
any time of the year. I love to watch
the plow in the late fall curve the wide
cieep furrows of rich black soil, the
salt-and-pepper look as the first fall
of snow sprinkles its flawless flakes,
the crunching sound of firm snow
under foot as I walk along in the pure
white air, or the snow glistening in
the sunlight like a shimmering sea of
jewels. But in the early spring I think
I love the fields the most when burst-
ing blades of grass paint them a
rich, emerald shade, which will turn
by mid-summer into golden grain.
When the south wind sweeps low over
the fields they look like rolling waves
of an ocean. No wonder the sea will
look very familiar when I see it
tor the first time. But imagination has
a way of winding beloved scenes. Here
comes a team of bays, Pat and Mike,
pulling a wagon up the hill. I dare
not look at the driver, for I love him
so much that my thoughts will scatter
with homesickness.
I will turn with the wind and lean
on the sturdy oaks shading the old
community hall and choose a day from
the past filled with activity; a warm
summer day, the Fourth of July, or the
Second of August, Iceland’s Indepen-
dence Day. I shall gaze at the men
sitting under the trees and chewing at
straws. We children are not at play,
for we are in our best clothes. How
awkward we look, as most of us have
not reached the size of our dresses or
completely outgrown them.
There is a strong aroma of coffee
coming from the basement of the hall
and a low hum of chatter, as at any
large gathering, only this has a melod-
ious sound. It is the sound of the
mother tongue. I believe an Icelandic
soul accepts with highest respeot an-
other language, but never turns for-
eign.
I follow the trail west and turn
south in search of the old school house
. . . but now I see the white cottage of
the Minister, whose confirmation class
is my destination. I pause with bated
breath before I knock at the front
door, which is only used by us, child-
ren, while going there to classes. The
back door is entirely different. The
Minister’s beautiful and gracious wife
holds her door open for any youngster.
Now I hear the heavy firm step of
the Minister as he opens the door and
I tiptoe into the parlor and sit on the
edge of my chair. He is a tall, stately
man with dark hair and dark mustache.
There is always a glint of humor
streaming from his eyes and a sense
of knowledge, as if he knew every