It is probably that there are few places more
gloomy and uninviting than certain parts of the parish of Sibbarp, in the
Province of Halland. Dark heaths cover a good portion of the parish, and from
their dull brown surface rises, here and there, a lonely, cheerless mountain.
One of these is Folkared's Cliff, in the southern part of the parish, noted
of old as the abiding place of little trolls and dwarfs. One chilly autumn
day a peasant, going from Hogared, in Ljungby, to Folkared, in Sibbarp, in
order to shorten his journey took a shortcut by way of the cliff, upon reaching
which he perceived a dwarf about the size of a child seven or eight years
old, sitting upon a stone crying. "Where is your home?" asked the peasant,
moved by the seeming distress of the little fellow. "Here," sobbed the dwarf,
pointing to the mountain. "How long have you lived here?" questioned the peasant
in surprise. "Six hundred years." - "Six hundred years! You lie, you rascal,
and you deserve to be whipped for it." - "Oh! Do not strike me," pleaded the
dwarf, continuing to cry. "I have had enough of blows already today." - "Who
have you received them from?" asked the peasant. "From my father." - "What
capers did you cut up that you were thus punished?" - "Oh, I was set to watch
my old grandfather and when I chanced to turn my back he fell and hurt himself
upon the floor." The peasant then understood what character of person he had
met, and grasping his dirk he prepared to defend himself. But instantly he
heard an awful crash in the mountain, and the dwarf had vanished.
Source:
Herman Hofberg, "Swedish Fairy Tales", translated by W. H. Myers (Chicago,
W. B. Conkey Company, 1893), pp. 86-88. Translation modified here by
Shaun D. L. Brassfield-Thorpe.