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Bronson Tweed Publishing
Egholm and his God
Egholm and his God
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Sivert stands leaning his elbows on the window ledge, digging all ten fingers into his curly hair, and looking down at the muddy court below.
Not a soul.
He looks at the wet roofs, and the raindrops splashing tiny rings in the water all along the gutter.
Not so much as a sparrow in sight. Only the sullen November drizzle, flung now and then into gusts, and whipping the panes with a lash of rain.
But that is enough for Sivert. He looks out into the grey desolation, highly amused at it all.
Now he purses up his lips and whispers something, raises his eyebrows, mutters something in reply, and giggles.
Let him, for Heaven’s sake, as long as he can, thinks his mother.
And Sivert finds it more amusing still. Wonderful, so much there is going on inside him. He shakes his poodle mop of hair, and gives way to a long-drawn, gasping laugh—simply can’t help it—leans his forehead[2] against the pane, thrusts both hands suddenly deep into his pockets, and gives a curious wriggle.
“You great big boy, what’s the matter now?” says his mother gently.
Sivert turns his head away and answers with an evasive laugh:
“All that rain ... it tickles so.”
Fru Egholm does not question him again; for a moment she really feels as if the boy were right. And, anyhow, it would be no use asking him. If only he can find his little pleasure in it, so much the better.
Sivert stands leaning his elbows on the window ledge, digging all ten fingers into his curly hair, and looking down at the muddy court below.
Not a soul.
He looks at the wet roofs, and the raindrops splashing tiny rings in the water all along the gutter.
Not so much as a sparrow in sight. Only the sullen November drizzle, flung now and then into gusts, and whipping the panes with a lash of rain.
But that is enough for Sivert. He looks out into the grey desolation, highly amused at it all.
Now he purses up his lips and whispers something, raises his eyebrows, mutters something in reply, and giggles.
Let him, for Heaven’s sake, as long as he can, thinks his mother.
And Sivert finds it more amusing still. Wonderful, so much there is going on inside him. He shakes his poodle mop of hair, and gives way to a long-drawn, gasping laugh—simply can’t help it—leans his forehead[2] against the pane, thrusts both hands suddenly deep into his pockets, and gives a curious wriggle.
“You great big boy, what’s the matter now?” says his mother gently.
Sivert turns his head away and answers with an evasive laugh:
“All that rain ... it tickles so.”
Fru Egholm does not question him again; for a moment she really feels as if the boy were right. And, anyhow, it would be no use asking him. If only he can find his little pleasure in it, so much the better.
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