Tales From Moominvalley

PUFFIN BOOKS

Tales from Moominvalley

Tove Jansson was born in Helsingfors, Finland, in 1914. Her mother was a carcaturist (and designed 165 of Finland's stamps) and her father was a sculptor. Tove Jansson studied painting in Finland, Sweden and France. She lived alone on a small island in the gulf of Finland, where, most of her books were written.

Tove Jansson died in June 2001.

Other books by Tove Jansson

FINN FAMILY MOOMINTROLL
COMET IN MOOMINLAND
THE EXPLOITS OF MOOMINPAPPA
MOOMINLAND MIDWINTER
MOOMINSUMMER MADNESS
MOOMINVALLEY IN NOVEMBER

Tove Jansson

Tales from Moominvalley

Translated by Thomas Warburton

PUFFIN BOOKS

PUFFIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group
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First published as
Det Osynliga
1962
This translation published in Great Britain by Ernest Benn and
in the USA by Hery Z Walck 1963
Published in Puffin Books 1973
31

Copyright (c) Tove Jansson, 1963
All rights reserved

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

TO SOPHIA

TALES CONTENTED

The Spring Tune

A Tale of Horror

The Fillyjonk who believed in Disasters

The Last Dragon in the World

The Hemulen who loved Silence

The Invisible Child

The Secret of the Hattifatteners

Cedric

The Fir Tree

The Spring Tune

O
NE
calm and cloudless evening, towards the end of April, Snufkin found himself far enough to the north to see still unmelted patches of snow on the northern slopes.

He had been walking all day through undisturbed landscapes, listening to the cries of the birds also on their way northwards, home from the South.

Walking had been easy, because his knapsack was nearly empty and he had no worries on his mind. He felt happy about the wood and the weather, and himself. Tomorrow and yesterday were both at a distance, and just at present the sun was shining brightly red between the birches, and the air was cool and soft.

It's the right evening for a tune, Snufkin thought. A new tune, one part expectation, two parts spring sadness, and for the rest, just the great delight of walking alone and liking it.

He had kept this tune under his hat for several days, but hadn't quite dared to take it out yet. It had to grow into a kind of happy conviction. Then, he would simply have to put his lips to the mouth organ, and all the notes would jump instantly into their places.

If he released them too soon they might get stuck crossways and make only a half-good tune, or he might lose them altogether and never be in the right mood to get hold of them again. Tunes are serious things, especially if they have to be jolly and sad at the same time.

But this evening Snufkin felt rather sure of his tune. It was there, waiting, nearly full-grown - and it was going to be the best he ever made.

Then, when he arrived in Moominvalley, he'd sit on the bridge rail and play it, and Moomintroll would say at once: That's a good one. Really a good one.

Snufkin stopped in his tracks, feeling just a little bit uneasy. Yes, Moomintroll, always waiting and longing. Moomintroll who sat at home, who waited for him and admired him, and who always told him: Of course you have to feel free. Naturally you must go away. I do understand that you have to be alone at times.

And all the times his eyes were black with disappointment and no one could help it.

Oh my, oh my, Snufkin said to himself and continued on his way.

Oh my, oh my. He's got such a lot of feelings, this Moomintroll. I won't think of him now. He's a splendid Moomin, but I don't have to think of him now. Tonight I'm alone with my tune, and tonight isn't tomorrow.

In a little while Snufkin had managed to forget all about Moomintroll. He was sniffing around for a good place to camp in, and when he heard a brook a bit further on in the wood he went towards the sound.

The last red ray of sunlight had vanished between the birches. Now came the spring twilight, slow and blue. All the wood was changed, and the white pillars of the birches went wandering further and further off in the blue dusk.

The brook was a good one.

It went rushing clear and brown over wads of last year's leaves, through small tunnels of left-over ice, swerving through the green moss and throwing itself headlong down in a small waterfall on to a white sand bottom. In places it droned sharp as a mosquito, then it tried to sound great and menacing, stopped, gurgled with a mouthful of melted snow, and laughed at it all.