When the poet purchased his country estate which was his home from the late seventies to the end of his life,örnstjerneBjö his coming was looked forward to with mingled feelings by the good country folk of the neighborhood. Kristofer Janson thus tells the story of his arrival:
"His coming was anticipated with a certain anxiety and apprehension, for was he not a 'horrid radical'? The dean in particular thought that he might be a menace to the safe spiritual slumber of the village. As the dean one day was driving through the village in his carriole, just where the road turns sharply by the bridge below Aulestad, he met another carriole which was rapidly driving that way and in it a man who, without respect for the clerical vehicle, shouted with all the strength of his lungs: 'Half the road!' The dean turned aside, saying with a sigh: 'Has Björnson come to the Gausdal at last?' "It was indeed so, and he showed his colors at the start. The same dean and Björnson became the best of friends afterwards, and found much sport in interchanging genial jests whenever they met."
Frits Thaulow, the painter, thus wrote to Björnson reminding him of a festive gathering of students:
"The manager came in and announced with a loud voice that it was past twelve. Then you sprang up.
"'Bring champagne! Now I will speak of what comes after twelve o'clock! of all that lies beyond the respectable hour for retiring! For the hour when fancy awakens and fills us with longings for the world of wonderland; then the painter sees only the dim outline in the moonlight, then the musician hears the silence, then the poet after his thoughtful day feels sprouting the first shoots of the next. After twelve freedom begins. The day's tumult is stilled, and the voice within becomes audible.'
"Thus you spoke, and 'after twelve' became a watchword with us.
"Many a spark has been kindled in your soul by the quiet evening time. But later in life, when you become a chieftain in the battle, broad daylight also made its demands upon you. Like the sun you shone upon us and made the best that was in us to grow, but I shall always keep a deep artistic affection for what comes 'after twelve.'"
Henrik Cavling tells the following story of the poet in Paris: