"Rida, rida, ranka!
The horse's name is Blanka.
Little rider, dear and sweet,
Now no spurs are on your feet;
When you've grown and won them,
Childhood's bliss is done then.

"Rida, rida, ranka!
The horse's name is Blanka.
Little one with eyes so blue,
A kingly crown will come to you,
A crown so bright and splendid!
Then youthful joy is ended."

Fru Ekman sang the words of the old Swedish lullaby as she had sung them
many times, years before, when the twins lay in their blue cradle at
Grandmother Ekman's farm in Dalarne; but now the boy stood proudly in a
suit of soldier gray, and the girl made a pretty picture in a set of soft
new furs.

It was the morning of the twins' twelfth birthday, and a March snow-storm
was covering the housetops and pavements with a white fur coat, "Just
like my own pretty coat," Gerda said, turning slowly round and round so
that everyone might see the warm white covering.

"The snow will soon be gone," she added, "but my furs will wait for me
until next winter."