Read Online Moominland Midwinter by Tove Jansson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tove Jansson
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Juvenile Nonfiction, Classics, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Nature & the Natural World, Seasons, Concepts, winter, Moomins (Fictitious Characters), Environment, Surprise
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that exciting things always stop happening when you're not afraid of them any more and would like to have a little fun.'
When he opened the door, a wisp of steaming, warm air rushed out in the blizzard, and Moomintroll saw fuzzily that the bathing-house was chock-full of people.
'There's one of them!' someone cried.
'Who else?' asked Moomintroll, drying his face.
'Salome the Little Creep's lost in the blizzard,' said Too-ticky gravely.
A glass of hot syrup came gliding through the air. 'Thanks,' said Moomintroll to the invisible shrew. Then he continued: 'But I've never heard about Salome the Little Creep going out of doors.'
'We don't understand it either,' said the oldest of the Whompers. 'And it's no use hunting for her until the blizzard ceases. She might be anywhere, and very probably she's snowed in.'
'Where's the Hemulen?' asked Moomintroll.
'He's gone out to make a search anyhow,' replied Too-ticky. She added with a slight grin: 'You seem to have had a talk about the Lonely Mountains.'
'Well, what of it?' Moomintroll asked vehemently.
Too-ticky's grin spread out. 'You've got a great gift of persuasion,' she said. 'The Hemulen told us that the skiing grounds in the Lonely Mountains are simply wretched. And he was very happy because we all like him so much.'
'I only meant to tell him...' Moomintroll began. Take it easy,' said Too-ticky. 'It's even possible that we're beginning to like the Hemulen.'
*
The Hemulen perhaps had not very delicate perceptions, and perhaps he didn't always feel what people around him thought about things. But his scent was even keener than Sorry-oo's. (Besides Sorry-oo's scent was spoiled for the time being by emotional thinking.)
The Hemulen had found a couple of old tennis rackets in the attic and had made himself a pair of snow-shoes. Now he was calmly plodding along through the blizzard, keeping his snout close to the ground and trying to catch a whiff of the faint scent of the smallest Creep he had ever seen.
On his way he looked into his igloo and caught the scent there.
'Why, the little squeak's been looking for me here,' the Hemulen thought, good-naturedly. 'I wonder...' And suddenly the Hemulen had a fuzzy memory of Salome the Little Creep trying to tell him something some time but being too shy to do it properly.
While he plodded along through the blizzard he saw one picture after the other with his inner vision: The Creep waiting for him beneath the hill... The Creep running in his ski-tracks... The Creep nosing at the horn... And the Hemulen thought, flabbergasted: 'I say, I've been unkind to her!' He didn't feel any prick in his conscience, because Hemulens seldom do. But he became a little more interested in finding Salome the Little Creep.
He now laid himself down on his knees so as not to lose her track. The scent went zigzagging and looping along, exactly as little beasts use to scuttle about when they are muddleheaded from fear. The Creep had even been down on the bridge once and gone dangerously near the edge. Then the scent returned, climbed the hill a bit and suddenly disappeared.
The Hemulen stood thinking for a while, which was no mean effort.
Then he started to dig. He dug for quite a time. And finally he came upon something very small and warm.
'Don't be afraid,' said the Hemulen. 'It's only me.'
He tucked the Creep between shirt and flannel vest, rose and started to plod back to the bathing-house.
On his way back, as a matter of fact, he nearly forgot Salome the Little Creep and thought only of a glass of hot syrup and water.
*
The following day was Sunday, and the gale had calmed down. The weather was warm and cloudy, and people sank up to their ears in snow.
The valley looked as strange as a moonscape. The drifts were enormous, rounded heaps or beautifully curved ridges with edges sharp as knives. Every single twig in the wood carried a large snow-cap. The trees looked most of all like big pastry-cakes made by a very fanciful
When he opened the door, a wisp of steaming, warm air rushed out in the blizzard, and Moomintroll saw fuzzily that the bathing-house was chock-full of people.
'There's one of them!' someone cried.
'Who else?' asked Moomintroll, drying his face.
'Salome the Little Creep's lost in the blizzard,' said Too-ticky gravely.
A glass of hot syrup came gliding through the air. 'Thanks,' said Moomintroll to the invisible shrew. Then he continued: 'But I've never heard about Salome the Little Creep going out of doors.'
'We don't understand it either,' said the oldest of the Whompers. 'And it's no use hunting for her until the blizzard ceases. She might be anywhere, and very probably she's snowed in.'
'Where's the Hemulen?' asked Moomintroll.
'He's gone out to make a search anyhow,' replied Too-ticky. She added with a slight grin: 'You seem to have had a talk about the Lonely Mountains.'
'Well, what of it?' Moomintroll asked vehemently.
Too-ticky's grin spread out. 'You've got a great gift of persuasion,' she said. 'The Hemulen told us that the skiing grounds in the Lonely Mountains are simply wretched. And he was very happy because we all like him so much.'
'I only meant to tell him...' Moomintroll began. Take it easy,' said Too-ticky. 'It's even possible that we're beginning to like the Hemulen.'
*
The Hemulen perhaps had not very delicate perceptions, and perhaps he didn't always feel what people around him thought about things. But his scent was even keener than Sorry-oo's. (Besides Sorry-oo's scent was spoiled for the time being by emotional thinking.)
The Hemulen had found a couple of old tennis rackets in the attic and had made himself a pair of snow-shoes. Now he was calmly plodding along through the blizzard, keeping his snout close to the ground and trying to catch a whiff of the faint scent of the smallest Creep he had ever seen.
On his way he looked into his igloo and caught the scent there.
'Why, the little squeak's been looking for me here,' the Hemulen thought, good-naturedly. 'I wonder...' And suddenly the Hemulen had a fuzzy memory of Salome the Little Creep trying to tell him something some time but being too shy to do it properly.
While he plodded along through the blizzard he saw one picture after the other with his inner vision: The Creep waiting for him beneath the hill... The Creep running in his ski-tracks... The Creep nosing at the horn... And the Hemulen thought, flabbergasted: 'I say, I've been unkind to her!' He didn't feel any prick in his conscience, because Hemulens seldom do. But he became a little more interested in finding Salome the Little Creep.
He now laid himself down on his knees so as not to lose her track. The scent went zigzagging and looping along, exactly as little beasts use to scuttle about when they are muddleheaded from fear. The Creep had even been down on the bridge once and gone dangerously near the edge. Then the scent returned, climbed the hill a bit and suddenly disappeared.
The Hemulen stood thinking for a while, which was no mean effort.
Then he started to dig. He dug for quite a time. And finally he came upon something very small and warm.
'Don't be afraid,' said the Hemulen. 'It's only me.'
He tucked the Creep between shirt and flannel vest, rose and started to plod back to the bathing-house.
On his way back, as a matter of fact, he nearly forgot Salome the Little Creep and thought only of a glass of hot syrup and water.
*
The following day was Sunday, and the gale had calmed down. The weather was warm and cloudy, and people sank up to their ears in snow.
The valley looked as strange as a moonscape. The drifts were enormous, rounded heaps or beautifully curved ridges with edges sharp as knives. Every single twig in the wood carried a large snow-cap. The trees looked most of all like big pastry-cakes made by a very fanciful
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