On that windy May-day morning when Pelle tumbled out of the nest, it sohappened that old Klaus Hermann was clattering into town with his manure-cart,in order to fetch a load of dung. And this trifling circumstance decided theboy’s position in life. There was no more pother than this about thequestion: What was Pelle to be?
He had never put that question to himself. He had simply gone onward at hazard,as the meaning of the radiant world unfolded itself. As to what he should makeof himself when he was really out in the world —well, the matter was soincomprehensible that it was mere folly to think about it. So he just went on.
Now he had reached the further end of the ridge. He lay down in the ditch torecover his breath after his long walk; he was tired and hungry, but inexcellent spirits. Down there at his feet, only half a mile distant, lay thetown. There was a cheerful glitter about it; from its hundreds of fireplacesthe smoke of midday fires curled upward into the blue sky, and the red roofslaughed roguishly into the beaming face of the day. Pelle immediately began tocount the houses; not wishing to exaggerate, he had estimated them at a milliononly, and already he was well into the first hundred.
But in the midst of his counting he jumped up. What did the people down thereget for dinner? They must surely live well there! And was it polite to go oneating until one was quite full, or should one lay down one’s spoon whenone had only half finished, like the landowners when they attended a dinner?For one who was always hungry this was a very important question.
There was a great deal of traffic on the high-road. People were coming andgoing; some had their boxes behind them in a cart, and others carried theirsole worldly possessions in a bag slung over their shoulders, just as he did.Pelle knew some of these people, and nodded to them benevolently; he knewsomething about all of them. There were people who were going to thetown—his town—and some were going farther, far over the sea, toAmerica, or even farther still, to serve the King there; one could see that bytheir equipment and the frozen look on their faces. Others were merely goinginto the town to make a hole in their wages, and to celebrate May-day. Thesecame along the road in whole parties, humming or whistling, with empty handsand overflowing spirits. But the most interesting people were those who had puttheir boxes on a wheelbarrow, or were carrying them by both handles. These hadflushed faces, and were feverish in their movements; they were people who hadtorn themselves away from their own country-side, and their accustomed way oflife, and had chosen the town, as he himself had done.
There was one man, a cottager, with a little green chest on his wheelbarrow;this latter was broad in the beam, and it was neatly adorned with flowerspainted by his own hand. Beside him walked his daughter; her cheeks were red,and her eyes were gazing into the unknown future. The father was speaking toher, but she did not look as though she heard him. “Yes—now youmust take it on you to look out for yourself; you must think about it, and notthrow yourself away. The town is quite a good place for those who go rightahead and think of their own advantage, but it thinks nothing of who getstrodden underfoot. So don’t be too trusting, for the people there arewonderful clever in all sorts of tricks to take you in and trip you up. At the