Long ago we had driven the cattle to the Aim Meadow and carried the furniture out into the field. People came running by who were half mad. Old Martin kept his senses better than the rest, although his hut was burned, he picked cranberries at midnight by the light of the flames. My father went upon the roof of our cottage, carrying a pole on the end of which was a rag which was wet. With this he put out the falling sparks. On the fifth night, when we were sleeping in a corner of our empty rooms, we were awakened by a great roaring. Old Markus, who was keeping watch upon the roof, called to us. “That’s good! That’s good!”
A storm had arisen and now it was raging over the burning woodland, with a power that was splendid and terrifying. It roared and thundered like a cataract turned loose among the trees. The fire was turned away from our direction, and that was what caused the words of old Markus. The flames were in wild flight. They leaped over entire stretches of forest and set fire to fresh woodlands far away.
“It is over! We are saved!” exclaimed the helpless people in surprise. Some, indeed, when the smoke cleared away and they saw the bald mountain sides, regained their normal mind and said: “Surely there is going to be a great festival for the mountains have shaved themselves.”
When the storm was over, the rain came. For days the rain fell and the heavy clouds hung low. At last the fire was extinguished. Over the forest spread a frosty fog, for fall had come.
