Chapter 8 - Karlsson Goes to a Birthday Party - Karlsson on the Roof Fairy tale by Astrid Lindgren

It was summertime. School was over, and Eric would soon be going to his Grannie’s. But first a very important event was due to take place. Eric would be eight years old. Oh, what a long time he had waited for this day to come … ever since his seventh birthday! Strange that it should be so long between birthdays—almost as long as between Christmases.

On the eve of his birthday Eric had a little talk with Karlsson.

“I’m going to have a birthday party,” said Eric. “Bridget and Christopher are coming, and we can have tea in my room …”

Eric paused and looked gloomy. “I’d like very much to ask you, too,” he said, “but—”

Mommy got so angry at any mention of Karlsson-on-the-Roof. It did not seem much use asking her to let Karlsson come to his birthday party.

But Karlsson pouted, with his lower lip stuck out more than ever.

“I’m going home if I can’t come,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I have some fun?”

“Yes, all right! You can come,” said Eric hastily. He would talk to Mommy, come what may. It was impossible to have a birthday party without Karlsson.

“What will there be to eat?” asked Karlsson, now restored to good humor.

“Birthday cake, of course,” said Eric. “I will have a cake with eight candles on it.”

“Oh!” said Karlsson. “Look, I’ve got an idea.”

“What?” asked Eric.

“Couldn’t you ask your Mommy for eight birthday cakes and one candle instead?”

Eric did not think his Mommy would agree to that.

“Will you get some nice presents, then?” asked Karlsson.

“I don’t know,” said Eric.

He sighed. He certainly knew what he wanted—more than anything else in the world. But he would not get it.

“I don’t think I’ll have a dog as long as I live,” he said. “But there’ll be a lot of other presents, of course. So I must be contented and not think of a dog all day; I’ve made up my mind about that.”

“Yes, and you’ve got me, haven’t you?” said Karlsson. “I should imagine that’s one up on a dog!”

He tilted his head and looked at Eric. “I wonder what sort of presents you’ll get,” he said. “I wonder if you’ll get any toffee. If you do, I think it ought to go straight to a Deserving Charity.”

“Oh, yes! If I get a bag of toffee I’ll give it to you,” said Eric. There was nothing he would not do for Karlsson, and besides, they would soon have to part.

“Karlsson! The day after tomorrow I’m going away to stay with Grannie, and I will be there all summer,” said Eric.

Karlsson looked a little sulky at first, but then he said importantly, “I’m going to my grannie’s, too. And she’s much grannier than yours!”

“Where does your grannie live?” asked Eric.

“In a house,” Karlsson replied. “What did you think? She wouldn’t be out running around all night, would she?”

After that not much more was said about Karlsson’s grannie, or about Eric’s birthday presents, or anything, because it was getting late, and Eric wanted to go to bed to make sure that he would wake up early on his birthday.

The minutes when he was lying in bed, waiting for the door to open and for the family to troop in—with presents and everything—were almost too exciting. Eric felt tense with eager expectation.

But at last they came. Now they started singing “Happy birthday to you.” Now the door opened, and there they were, all of them, Mommy and Daddy and Bobby and Betty.

Eric sat up in his bed, straight as a ramrod, and his eyes sparkled.

“Happy birthday, darling!” said Mommy.

They all wished him happy birthday. The cake with eight candles was there on a tray with some of the presents—several presents, but perhaps not quite so many as he usually had on his birthday. But Daddy said, “There may be more presents later in the day. They don’t all necessarily come in the morning.”

Eric was very pleased with all of his presents. There were a box of paints, a toy pistol, a book, and a pair of blue jeans, and he liked everything. How kind they were —Mommy and Daddy and Bobby and Betty! No one could have a kinder family than he had, he thought.

He took a couple of shots with his pistol, and it made a fine noise. The whole family sat on his bed and listened. Oh, how he loved them all!

“To think that eight years have gone by since this little boy came into the world!” said Daddy.

“Yes,” said Mommy, “how time flies! Do you remember how it poured in Stockholm that day?”

“Mommy! I was born in Stockholm, wasn’t I?” said Eric.

“Yes, of course you were,” said Mommy.

“But Bobby and Betty—they were born in Malmö?”

“Yes, they were.”

“And you, Daddy, you were born in Gothenburg, you said.”

“Yes, I’m a Gothenburger,” said Daddy.

“And where were you born, Mommy?”

“In Eskilstuna,” said Mommy.

Eric threw his arms around her neck.

“Wasn’t it terrifically lucky that we all met!”

They all thought it was. And then they sang “Happy Birthday” again, and he fired his pistol and it made a splendid noise.

He had plenty of time to shoot with his pistol during the day while he waited for the hour of the birthday party. He also had ample time to think over what Daddy had said … that there might be more presents later. For a brief, happy moment he wondered if, after all, perhaps a miracle might happen and he would have a dog—but then he came to the conclusion that it was impossible. He was cross with himself for having such an idea. He remembered he had decided not to think of a dog at all on his birthday and to be happy all the same.

Eric was happy. Later in the afternoon Mommy began to set the table in his room very festively. She put a big vase of flowers on it and her best pink cups and saucers—three of them.

“Mommy, we want four cups,” said Eric.

“Why?” asked Mommy, surprised.

Eric swallowed. He must tell Mommy that he had invited Karlsson-on-the-Roof, although she would not like it.

“Karlsson-on-the-Roof is coming as well,” said Eric, looking his mommy steadily in the eye.

“Ooh!” said Mommy. “Well, I suppose it’s all right. It is your birthday, after all.”

She patted Eric’s fair head.

“What a baby you are, Eric, imagining things. Who would think you’re eight years old! How old are you really?”

“I’m a Man in his Prime,” said Eric with dignity. “And so is Karlsson.”

The day seemed to pass at a snail’s pace. Now it was quite “later,” but he still saw no sign of any more presents.

At last he did have another. Bobby and Betty came home from school. They shut themselves in Bobby’s room and would not let Eric in. He heard them giggling and paper rustling. Eric was bursting with curiosity.

After a long time they came out, and Betty laughingly handed him a package. Eric was thrilled and wanted to tear the paper off at once. But Bobby said, “You’ve got to read the verse on it first.”

They had used large capital letters to make it easy for Eric to read, and it said:

Big sister, big brother, kinder than you thought,

For little brother’s birthday, an animal have bought.

This little velvet poodle dog is good and soft and round,

He does not jump up high and bark; he never makes a sound.

Eric stood absolutely still.

“Open it, then!” said Bobby. But Eric threw the package on the floor, and tears gushed from his eyes.

“But Eric! Whatever’s the matter?” cried Betty.

“Are you upset?” asked Bobby unhappily.

Betty threw her arms around Eric.

“Oh, please forgive us—it was only a joke.”

Eric broke away sharply. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“But you knew,” he sobbed, “but you knew I wanted a real dog. It wasn’t a bit funny.”

He rushed away from them to his own room and threw himself on the bed. Bobby and Betty followed him and Mommy came running. But Eric took no notice of them. He wept so that his whole body shook. His birthday was entirely spoiled. He was determined to be happy, although he was not going to have a dog; but when they came and gave him a velvet dog … His weeping rose to pitiful sobs when he thought of it, and he burrowed his face as far into the pillow as he could. Mommy, Bobby, and Betty stood by the bed, and they too were unhappy.

“I must call up Daddy and ask him to come home from the office a little earlier,” said Mommy.

Eric was crying … what good would it do if Daddy came home? Everything was sad now, and the birthday was spoiled. Nothing would make any difference.

A little later he heard Daddy come home … but he cried. He would never be happy again. It would be better to die, and then Bobby and Betty could keep their velvet dog and never, never forget how horrid they had been to their little brother when he was alive and had his birthday.

Suddenly they were all standing by his bed, Daddy and Mommy and Bobby and Betty. He buried his face even deeper in the pillow.

“Eric! There’s someone waiting for you out in the hall,” said Daddy.

Eric did not answer. Daddy shook him by the shoulder.

“There’s a little friend of yours in the hall; listen to me!”

“Is it Bridget or Christopher?” muttered Eric crossly.

“No, it’s somebody called Bimbo,” said Mommy.

“I don’t know anyone called Bimbo,” mumbled Eric, even more crossly.

“Perhaps not,” said Mommy. “But he very much wants to get to know you.” As she spoke a short little yapping bark was heard from the hall.

Eric’s muscles all went tense and he gripped the pillow hard … No! he really must stop imagining things.

But once more he heard the little yapping sound. Eric bolted upright in bed.

“Is it a dog?” he said. “Is it a real dog?”

“Yes, it’s your dog,” said Daddy.

Then Bobby rushed out into the hall, and a second later he returned, and in his arms he was carrying—oh, it couldn’t be true! In his arms he was carrying a small, wire-haired dachshund puppy.

“Is it my real dog?” whispered Eric.

There were tears still in his eyes when he stretched out his arms for Bimbo. He looked as if he thought the puppy would at any moment go up in smoke and disappear.

But Bimbo did not disappear. Bimbo was in his arms, and Bimbo licked his face and whined and barked and snapped at Eric’s ears. Bimbo was really real.

“Are you happy now, Eric?” asked Daddy.

Eric sighed. How could Daddy ask such a question? He was so happy that it hurt—somewhere in his soul, or in his tummy, or wherever it does hurt when you are perfectly happy.

“You see, Eric, that velvet dog was meant to be a toy for Bimbo,” said Betty. “We didn’t mean to be horrid … not very, anyway,” she added.

Eric forgave everyone. Besides, he was hardly listening. He was talking to Bimbo.

“Bimbo, little Bimbo, you’re my dog!”

Then he said to Mommy, “I think Bimbo is cuter than Nicholson. Because wire-haired dachshunds are the cutest, I think.”

Then he remembered that Bridget and Christopher would arrive any minute. Oh, dear, he could not understand how so many lovely things could happen in one single day. Think of it! Now they would see that he had a dog, and one that was really his own, and the nicest, nicest, nicest dog on the whole earth.

“Mommy! Can I take Bimbo with me when I go to Grannie’s?” he asked anxiously.

“Of course! You can carry him in this little basket when you go on the train,” said Mommy, pointing at a dog basket which Bobby had fetched from the hall.

“Oh!” said Eric. “Oh!”

Then the doorbell rang. It was Bridget and Christopher.

Eric rushed to meet them, shouting, “I’ve got a dog! It’s my own dog!”

“Oh, isn’t he sweet!” said Bridget. Then she remembered herself and said, “Happy birthday! This is from Christopher and me.”

She held out a bag of toffee, then she eagerly turned back to Bimbo and exclaimed, “Oh! isn’t he cute!” which pleased Eric very much.

“Almost as cute as Joffa,” said Christopher.

“Almost cuter,” said Bridget. “Even cuter than Nicholson.”

“Yes, much cuter than Nicholson,” exclaimed Christopher.

Eric thought that Bridget and Christopher were really nice, both of them, and he asked them to come and sit down to the birthday party.

Mommy had just put out piles of tasty ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and platefuls of pastries. And in the middle of the table stood the birthday cake with eight candles on it.

Now Mommy brought a large jug of chocolate from the kitchen and poured it into the cups.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Karlsson?” suggested Eric.

Mommy shook her head.

“I don’t think we’ll bother about Karlsson. You see, I’m almost sure he’s not going to come. From now on we won’t bother about him at all. Because now you’ve got Bimbo.”

Yes, of course, now he had Bimbo … but that did not make Eric want Karlsson any the less at his party.

Bridget and Christopher sat down at the table, and Mommy handed out the sandwiches. Eric put Bimbo in the little dog basket and sat down himself. Then Mommy went away and left the children to themselves.

Bobby put his nose through the door and shouted, “You’ll save some cake, won’t you, so that Betty and I can each have a slice?”

“I suppose so,” said Eric, “though it doesn’t seem quite fair. After all, you’d been wolfing cake for seven or eight years before I was born.”

“Don’t be an idiot! I want a big piece,” said Bobby, shutting the door.

As soon as he had gone the familiar buzzing sound was heard and in came Karlsson.

“Have you started already?” he shouted. “How much have you eaten?”

Eric reassured him. They had not had time to start yet.

“Good!” said Karlsson.

“Aren’t you going to say happy birthday to Eric?” asked Bridget.

“Oh, yes, happy birthday,” said Karlsson. “Where shall I sit?”

There was no cup for Karlsson, and when he noticed this, he stuck out his lower lip and looked cross.

“I’m going home if it’s not fair shares. Why isn’t there a cup for me?”

Eric hastily gave him his own. Then he slipped out into the kitchen and fetched another cup for himself.

“Karlsson! I’ve got a dog,” he said when he returned. “He’s over there, and he’s called Bimbo.”

Eric pointed at Bimbo, who was lying in his basket fast asleep.

“Oh, good,” said Karlsson. “I’ll take that sandwich … and that one … and that one! Oh, I’ve just remembered,” he added. “I brought a birthday present for you. I’m the kindest person in the world.”

He took a whistle from his trousers pocket and gave it to Eric. “You can use it when you want to whistle for Bimbo. I whistle for my dogs, too, though they’re called Nicholson and can fly.”

“Are they all called Nicholson?” asked Christopher.

“Yes, all thousand of them,” said Karlsson. “When are we going to cut the cake?”

“Thank you, dear, dear Karlsson, for the whistle,” said Eric. “It’ll be wonderful to have it for Bimbo.”

“Perhaps I’ll borrow it sometimes,” said Karlsson. “Perhaps I’ll borrow it quite often,” he said, and added anxiously, “Did you receive any toffee?”

“Oh, yes,” said Eric. “From Bridget and Christopher.”

“It’ll go straight to a Deserving Charity,” said Karlsson, seizing the bag. He put it in his pocket and started on the sandwiches.

Bridget, Christopher, and Eric had to be quick to get their share. But fortunately Mommy had provided plenty.

Mommy, Daddy, Bobby, and Betty were in the sitting room.

“Do you hear them?” said Mommy. “They’re having a good time in there. I am glad Eric got his dog. It’s going to be a nuisance, of course, but that can’t be helped.”

“Yes, now he’ll forget his silly ideas about Karlsson-on-the-Roof. I’m sure of that,” said Daddy.

Sounds of laughter and talking came from Eric’s room, and Mommy said, “Let’s go and have a look at the children—they’re so funny!”

“Yes, let’s!” said Betty.

They all went in—Mommy and Daddy and Bobby and Betty—to look at Eric’s birthday party.

It was Daddy who opened the door. But it was Mommy who called out first, for it was she who first caught sight of the fat little man sitting beside Eric: a fat little man with whipped cream up to his eyes.

“I feel faint,” said Mommy.

Daddy, Bobby, and Betty stood rooted to the floor and stared.

“You see, Mommy! Karlsson did come after all,” said Eric happily. “What a wonderful birthday I’m having!”

The fat little man swept away some of the cream from his mouth and with a chubby hand he waved to Daddy, Mommy, Bobby, and Betty, spraying the cream around him like a cloud.

“Hi-ho!” he shouted. “You haven’t had the pleasure yet, have you? My name’s Karlsson-on-the-Roof … ah, ah, Bridget, not so greedy! I’m supposed to have some cake too, aren’t I?”

He took hold of Bridget’s hand as she held a piece of cake and made her let it go. “Never saw such a greedy little girl!” he said.

Then he helped himself to another large slice. “The World’s Biggest Cake-Eater, that’s Karlsson-on-the-Roof,” he said with a sunny smile.

“Come, let’s go,” said Mommy.

“Don’t let me stop you,” said Karlsson.

“Promise me one thing,” said Daddy to Mommy when they had shut the door behind them. “Promise me one thing, all of you—you too Bobby and Betty! Don’t tell anybody about this—not anybody!”

“Why not?” asked Bobby.

“No one would believe us,” said Daddy. “And if they did believe us we wouldn’t have a moment’s peace for the rest of our lives.”

Daddy, Mommy, Bobby, and Betty promised each other not to tell a single person about the strange playmate Eric had found.

And they kept their word. No one has ever heard them so much as mention Karlsson. That is why Karlsson can go on living in his little house that no one knows anything about, although it stands on an ordinary roof of an ordinary house on a perfectly ordinary street in Stockholm. Karlsson can walk about and play tricks undisturbed, and this is exactly what he does. Because he’s the World’s Best Tricker.

All the sandwiches, all the cakes, and the whole of the birthday cake were finished, and Bridget and Christopher had gone home; Bimbo slept, and Eric was saying good-by to Karlsson. Karlsson was sitting on the window ledge, ready to fly off. The curtains fluttered to and fro, the air was soft, for it was summertime.

“Dear Karlsson, you’ll still be living on the roof when I come back from Grannie’s, won’t you?” said Eric.

“Calm, be calm!” said Karlsson. “So long as my grannie lets me go. But you never can tell, because she thinks I’m the World’s Best Grandchild.”

“Are you?” asked Eric.

“Of course! Who else? Can you think of anybody better?” asked Karlsson.

Then he turned the button in the middle of his tummy and the engine began to buzz.

“When I come back, we shall have lots of cake,” he shouted, “because this wasn’t enough to fatten anybody. Hi-ho, Eric!”

“Hi-ho, Karlsson!” shouted Eric.

And Karlsson was gone.

But by the side of Eric’s bed lay Bimbo in the little dog basket, fast asleep. Eric bent over him, and put his face in Bimbo’s fur. With a rough little hand he gently stroked the puppy’s head.

“Bimbo, tomorrow we’re off to Grannie’s,” he said. “Good night, Bimbo! Sweet dreams, Bimbo!”