Vilhelm Moberg - The Settlers

One day the Nilssons heard that a young Swede had opened a general store in Center City.

The first time Karl Oskar went into the store he thought today he wouldn’t have to use English to make his purchases. The store was so recently built and opened that piles of shavings still lay in the corners. Counter and shelves had not yet been painted, and there was a smell of pitch from newly sawed pine boards. From the ceiling hung a number of implements, harnesses, lanterns, coils of rope, and other objects, but most of the shelves were still bare.

Behind the counter stood a young man with a firm, narrow face and open, light-blue eyes. His blond hair was cut short and neatly combed. No one need ask in what country the new storekeeper had been born: his boots of thick, greased Småland leather alone gave Karl Oskar the information.

He greeted the man in his native tongue and was about to tell him who he was when the young man behind the counter said, “You must be Karl Oskar from Korpamoen?”

If the store ceiling had fallen on his head, Karl Oskar could not have been more surprised. The new storekeeper not only used the Ljuder dialect, he also spoke to Karl Oskar as if his name had been in daily use at home.

“Why — yes! But how in all the world. .”

“I’m Klas Albert Persson from Ljuder. My father was Churchwarden Per Persson of Åkerby.”

“You must be his youngest boy?”

“I am.”

“Well!”

Karl Oskar stared in disbelief at the younger man who was claiming that they were from the same parish in Sweden. And indeed, his ears testified to the fact that the young man spoke the Ljuder dialect.

“You certainly surprised me. I hadn’t expected one from home to be the new store owner.”

“I came to America three years ago,” said Klas Albert. “I’ve worked recently in a store in St. Paul.”

Klas Albert — yes, Karl Oskar remembered the boy, who had been of confirmation age when he himself emigrated; now he looked to be in his early twenties. He remembered him as a boy in Sweden; now he saw him as a grown man in America. In Klas Albert’s change he could measure the time he himself had been out here: enough for a boy to grow into manhood.

Many people were said to have come to America from Ljuder but he had not met any of them. And now the first store in the new town of Center City in Chisago County was run by a son of Churchwarden Per Persson of Åkerby. In some way it seemed the old and the new country had come closer through this meeting.

This countryman he must greet warmly. He offered his hand. “Welcome to us, Klas Albert.”

“Thank you, Karl Oskar.”

Karl Oskar had learned through letters from home that the churchwarden had been killed when his horses bolted, the summer after their emigration. The son now told him that his oldest brother had taken over the homestead. They were seven brothers and sisters, and the six younger ones must find their way in life the best they could. Since there was nothing to do at home, he had come to America to find his future. More and more people at home did likewise.

But the farmer from Korpamoen had never imagined that a son of the rich churchwarden would ever emigrate.

“I recognized you the moment you came in,” said Klas Albert proudly.

“Hm. My nose, I guess?”

And Karl Oskar smiled broadly. The churchwarden’s boys must often have seen his big nose when he drove by on his way to church or to the mill.

Klas Alberts look indicated that this was so. “But you’ve changed a lot since I last saw you.”

“Grown older, of course. We age faster in America than in Sweden.”

“Something in your face is different,” explained the younger immigrant. “Your skin looks like American people’s, they get so sunburned it stays with them the year round.”

“Well. How did you happen to come to Chisago?”

“I heard they had planned a town here, and I thought, as soon as they lay out a town they’ll need a store.”

Klas Albert had wanted to be a storekeeper ever since he was a small boy. But there was no opportunity in Sweden. All the old aldermen sat there and decided who was to be admitted to their group; they wouldn’t let in an outsider with no experience. Anyone wanting to start something new ran into red tape and great lords to stop him at every corner. So he had felt North America was the place to start a business unhindered. It was of course bad luck for him that he had had to start in this depression while all these money troubles still were unsettled. Wasn’t this a strange country, where anyone who wanted could start a bank and print his own bills? It was confusing, and certainly was apt to make people lose confidence in paper money. In Sweden only the government had the legal right to depress the value of money.

But this town had a good location; as more people came business would soon improve. He had heard that a German had arrived who would open a second store in Center City. “But I’m sure I’ll get along,” concluded Klas Albert with youthful confidence.

And Karl Oskar encouraged the new businessman.

“There’re lots of Swedes around here; you’ll get along, Klas Albert.”

He talked so long with the Åkerby churchwarden’s son that he almost forgot he had come to do some shopping. Before he left he invited Klas Albert to his house next Sunday. It would be hard for Kristina to wait to meet him.

When he came home he told her about the new storekeeper in Center City who was no one else but the youngest son of the Åkerby churchwarden. And the following Sunday Klas Albert arrived and was greeted as the most welcome guest they had ever received. Kristina had eagerly been awaiting the visitor and she began at once to question him about the home parish. She asked about people she remembered and wanted to hear of; hour after hour she questioned him about their home village. As it happened Klas Albert had left Sweden three years earlier so his news was not entirely fresh, but his brothers and sisters had written him about what had happened after he left; North America was spoken of in every house, and more and more people thought of emigrating.

Kristina learned a great deal she hadn’t known, and it was especially pleasing to her to see the face of a person who had been in the home places later than she.

Klas Albert was impressed with the fine house they had built to live in, so Karl Oskar took him out on an inspection of their other buildings and the fields; his new home could stand inspection and he wanted to show his guest from Sweden how things were with him in North America.

It was the nicest time of year, early summer; the verdant fields were fresh with the new crops. Karl Oskar didn’t want to boast of his great fields, but Klas Albert guessed he must have over twenty-five acres — which was a good guess. The fat oxen and the cows with their swollen udders wallowed in the meadow, healthy hogs filled the pen, thick-wooled sheep bleated contentedly. Stables, barns, threshing and wagon sheds were examined, and American tools and implements — so work-saving for a settler — were inspected in detail. Then Karl Oskar showed Klas Albert the huge sugar maples. Every year Karl Oskar drilled holes in the trunks to release the sap, which gave them all the sugar and syrup they needed. He asked the guest to taste the product; didn’t those blessed trees give them good sweetening?

The more Klas Albert saw the more his respect grew for the farmer from Korpamoen who was responsible for this thriving farm. Time and again he asked: When had Karl Oskar done all this? How had he had time? The reply was short. He had not wasted a single working day during his years on the claim, and that was the way it had happened.

Kristina showed the young man the Astrakhan apple tree, grown from a seed that had been sent from her Swedish home. The tree had shot up so fast it was now a head taller than she herself. Every fall she dug around her tree and covered the roots with an extra foot of soil to protect them against the cold. Her tree was in its early youth; as yet it had had no blossoms.