Once upon a time there was a man who was traveling about, and he came at length to a big and fine farm. There was such a fine manor house there that it might well have been a little castle.
“It would be a nice thing to get a night’s rest here,” said the man to himself, upon entering the gate.
Close by stood an old man with gray hair and beard, chopping wood.
“Good evening, father,” said the traveler. “Can I get lodgings here tonight?”
“I am not the father of the house,” said the old man. “Go into the kitchen and speak to my father!” The traveler went into the kitchen. There he met a man who was still older, and he was lying on his knees in front of the hearth, blowing into the fire.
“Good evening, father. Can I get lodgings here tonight?” asked the traveler.
“I am not the father of the house,” said the old man. “But go in and speak to my father. He is sitting at the table in the parlor.”
So the traveler went into the parlor and spoke to him who was sitting at the table. He was much older than the other two, and he sat there with chattering teeth, shaking, and reading in a big book, almost like a little child.
“Good evening, father. Can you give me lodgings here tonight?” said the man.
“I am not the father of the house. But speak to my father over there. He is sitting on the bench,” said the man who was sitting at the table with chattering teeth, and shaking and shivering. So the traveler went to him who was sitting on the bench. He was getting a pipe of tobacco ready, but he was so bent with age, and his hands shook so much, that he was scarcely able to hold the pipe.
“Good evening, father,” said the traveler again. “Can I get lodgings here tonight?”
“I am not the father of the house,” said the old, bent-over man. “But speak to my father, who is in the bed over yonder.”
The traveler went to the bed, and there lay an old, old man, and the only thing about him that seemed to be alive was a pair of big eyes.
“Good evening, father. Can I get lodgings here tonight?” said the traveler.
“I am not the father of the house. But speak to my father, who lies in the cradle yonder,” said the man with the big eyes. Yes, the traveler went to the cradle. There was a very old man lying, so shriveled up, that he was not larger than a baby, and one could not have told that there was life in him if it had not been for a sound in his throat now and then.
“Good evening, father. Can I get lodgings here tonight?” said the man. It took some time before he got an answer, and still longer before he had finished it. He said, like the others, that he was not the father of the house. “But speak to my father. He is hanging up in the horn on the wall there.”
The traveler stared around the walls, and at last he caught sight of the horn. But when he looked for him who hung in it, there was scarcely anything to be seen but a lump of white ashes, which had the appearance of a man’s face. Then he was so frightened, that he cried aloud, “Good evening, father. Will you give me lodgings here tonight?”
There was a sound like a little tomtit’s chirping, and he was barely able to understand that it meant, “Yes, my child.”
And now a table came in which was covered with the costliest dishes, with ale and brandy. And when he had eaten and drunk, in came a good bed with reindeer skins, and the traveler was very glad indeed that he at last had found the true father of the house.
Source: Peter Christen Asbjørnsen, Round the Yule Log: Norwegian Folk and Fairy Tales, translated by H. L. Brækstad (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, and Rivington, 1881) Illustration: Erik Werenskiold, 1879
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