The house-sparrow is as much at home in Norway as he is in every other land, but in winter he sticks close to the habitations, and were it not for the fact that the people are bird-lovers, sparrows would have a poor chance of picking up a living at this time of the year. Towards the end of autumn it is a general custom to erect near the house a sheaf of corn on a pole, so that the small birds may have something to eat when the hard weather comes. And the ceremony of putting up the pole is made the occasion for a feast for the children. They are thus not likely to forget the birds, and even in the towns one sees these bundles of corn hanging outside the windows.

It is, perhaps, a little disappointing to find that robins in Norway are not associated with Christmas, but the fact remains that they are not brave enough to risk starvation, and though a few of them are said to stay in the country, the bulk of them leave in September. But the wren takes the place of the robin as far as tameness and impertinence are concerned, as in winter he attaches himself to the peasant's cottage and makes himself quite at home, being known either as "Peter-of-the-Afternoon" or as "Tommy-round-the House." Magpies also are great favourites with the country people at this season, as they become quite tame, and hop in and out of the cottages. They are regularly fed, and no one would dream of molesting them.

The Norwegians have several quaint old legends connected with some of their birds. This is the story of the gold-crest, known in Norway as the "bird king":

"Once upon a time the golden eagle determined to be publicly acknowledged as king of the birds, and he called a meeting of every kind of bird in the world. As many of the birds would come from tropical countries, he appointed a day in the warmest month; and the place he chose was a vast tract called Groenfjeld, where every species of bird would feel at home, since it bordered on the sea, yet was well provided with trees, shrubs, flowers, rocks, sand, and heather, as well as with lakes and rivers full of fish. So on the morning of the great congress the birds began to arrive in a steady stream, and by noon every description of bird was represented—even the ostrich (though how he contrived to cross the seas the story does not say). The eagle welcomed them, and when the last hummingbird had settled down he addressed the meeting, saying that there was no doubt that he had a right to demand to be proclaimed their king. The spread of his wings was prodigious, he could fearlessly look at the sun, and to whatever height he soared he could detect the slightest movement of a fly on the earth. But the birds objected to him on account of his predatory habits, and then each in turn stated his own case as a claimant for the kingship—the ostrich could run the fastest, the bird of paradise and the peacock could look the prettiest, the parrot could talk the best, the canary could sing the sweetest, and every one of them, for some reason or other, was in his own opinion superior to his fellows. After several days of fruitless discussion it was finally decided that whichever bird could soar the highest should be, once and for all, proclaimed king."

"Every bird who could fly at all tried his best, and the golden eagle, confident of success, waited till last. Eventually he spread his wings, and as he did so an impudent little gold-crest hopped (unbeknown to his great rival) on to his back. Up went the eagle, and soon outdistanced every other bird. Then, when he had almost reached the sun, he shouted out, 'Well, here I am, the highest of all!' 'Not so,' answered the gold-crest, as, leaving the eagle's back, he fluttered upwards, until suddenly he knocked his head against the sun and set fire to his crest. Stunned by the shock, the little upstart fell headlong to the ground, but, soon recovering himself, he immediately flew up on to the royal rock and showed the golden crown which he had assumed. Unanimously he was proclaimed fuglekongen (king of the birds), and by this name," concludes the legend, "he has ever since been known, his sunburnt crest remaining as a proof of his cunning and daring."

In those parts of Norway where the gold-crest is rarely seen the same story, omitting the part about the sun and the burnt crest, is told of the common wren, who is said to have broken off his tail in his great fall. And to this is applied a moral, viz.: Proud and ambitious people sometimes meet with an unexpected downfall.

Besides the three British woodpeckers, there are four other kinds resident in Norway, and of these the great black woodpecker is the largest. The woodmen consider it to be a bird which brings bad luck, and avoid it as much as possible. They call it "Gertrude's Bird" because of the following legend: "Our Saviour once called on an old woman who lived all alone in a little cottage in an extensive forest in Norway. Her name was Gertrude, and she was a hard, avaricious old creature, who had not a kind word for anybody, and although she was not badly off in a worldly point of view, she was too stingy and selfish to assist any poor wayfarer who by chance passed her cottage door. One day our Lord happened to come that way, and, being hungry and thirsty, he asked of Gertrude a morsel of bread to eat and a cup of cold water to drink. But no, the wicked old woman refused, and turned our Saviour from the door with revilings and curses. Our Lord stretched forth His hand towards the aged crone, and, as a punishment, she was immediately transformed into a black woodpecker; and ever since that day the wicked old creature has wandered about the world in the shape of a bird, seeking her daily bread from wood to wood and from tree to tree." The red head of the bird is supposed to represent the red nightcap worn by Gertrude.

Legends of this description were doubtless introduced in the early days of Christianity in order to impress the new religion on the people, and several have been preserved. Thus the turtle-dove is revered as a bird which spoke kind words to our Lord on the cross; and, similarly, the swallow is said to have perched upon the cross and to have commiserated with Him; while the legend of the crossbill relates how its beak became twisted in endeavouring to withdraw the nails, and how to this day it bears upon its plumage the red blood-stains from the cross.

Yet one more Christian legend—about the lapwing, or peewit: "The lapwing was at one time a hand-maiden of the Virgin Mary, and stole her mistress's scissors, for which she was transformed into a bird, and condemned to wear a forked tail resembling scissors. Moreover, the lapwing was doomed for ever and ever to fly from tussock to tussock, uttering the plaintive cry of 'Tyvit! tyvit!'—i.e., 'Thief! thief!'"

In the old Viking times, before Christianity had found its way so far North, the bird which influenced the people most was the raven. He was credited with much knowledge, as well as with the power to bring good or bad luck. One of the titles of Odin was "Raven-god," and he had as messengers two faithful ravens, "who could speak all manner of tongues, and flew on his behests to the uttermost parts of the earth." In those days the figure of a raven was usually emblazoned on shield and standard, and it was thought that as the battle raged victory or defeat could be foreseen by the attitude assumed by the embroidered bird on the standard. And it is well known that William the Conqueror (who came of Viking stock) flew a banner with raven device at the Battle of Hastings.

But the greatest use of all to which the sable bird was put was to guide the roving pirates on their expeditions. Before a start was made a raven was let loose, and the direction of his flight gave the Viking ships their course. In this manner, according to the old Norse legends, did Floki discover Iceland; and many other extraordinary things happened under the auspices of the raven.



CHAPTER XII

WATERFALLS, SNOWFIELDS, AND GLACIERS

A really fine waterfall is a most fascinating thing. Long before you reach it you hear the roar of the water, and see the spray ascending like steam from a boiling caldron. Then when you stand before it, you gaze in wonder on the never-ending rush of water, hurtling in one great mass from top to bottom of the lofty cliff, or leaping in mighty bounds from ledge to ledge.

Nowhere in Europe can one see such a variety of waterfalls as in Norway, for every district has its fos, and in some districts the cascades are innumerable. In the Romsdal, for instance, an English traveller once counted within a mile no fewer than seventy-three waterfalls, "none of which were less than 1,000 feet high, while some plunged down 2,000 feet." But the majority of these would only consist of a single thread of water, not of that great, broad sheet which is the feature of the more famous falls.

Which of Norway's many waterfalls is the finest is a matter of opinion. Some people give the palm to the Rjukanfos (Telemarken), some to the Skjaeggedalsfos [2] (or Ringedalsfos), some to the Voeringfos, while others maintain that the Vettifos, the Tvindefos, and the Tyssedalsfos are without rivals. The fact is that each of these (and other falls which could be named) has its own particular charm, and the last one visited always seems to be the best. A great deal also depends on the time of year, and on the amount of snow which has fallen on the mountains during the preceding winter. For, it must be remembered, it is the rapid melting of the snow in the spring that gives to most of the Norwegian waterfalls such a volume of water in the early months of the year.

But the summer rainfall on the high fjelds is always heavy, and even after all the snow of the year has melted, an immense amount of water has to drain away to the lowlands, and so to the sea. At first it collects in the tarns which fill the hollows of the mountain plateaux, but these, overflowing, soon send their surplus water by certain channels away over the cliffs.

The greater waterfalls, however, are those which indirectly carry off the water from the snowfields, the mountains capped with perpetual snow; for, except during the frost-bound months of winter, these falls are always full.

The snowfields are of themselves of immense interest, but so intimately are they connected with the glaciers that we shall speak of the two together. A snowfield may exist without a glacier, but a glacier cannot exist without a snowfield—that is to say, the glacier is made by the snowfield.

How snowfields came into existence nobody knows for certain, but it is generally supposed by learned people who have studied the matter that, thousands of years ago, after what is called the Great Ice Age, Norway gradually put off her mantle of ice and snow and became what she is now; but the snow on the higher parts of the land has never yet had time to melt right away, because fresh snow is always falling and adding to the pile. And it is the weight of all this fresh snow on the top of the accumulation of centuries which produces the glaciers.

The Folgefond, in the Hardanger district, is the snowfield which most people who visit Norway see sooner or later, and since it covers an area of 120 square miles, at a height of about 5,500 feet above the sea, it is visible from a great many points of view. It forms a background to many a picture of the varied scenery of the Hardanger Fjord, and it has the advantage of being easily accessible.

Of course, the belief in the old popular legends is dying out even in Norway, but there are still some aged grandfathers and grandmothers living near the great snowfield who can tell the tales as they were told to them. Thus they relate that where the Folgefond now lies was once a fertile and well-peopled valley, called Folgedalen, and that in one night its farms, forests, people, and cattle were buried in snow as a judgment for some great sin. One story ascribes the misfortune to the curse of a gipsy woman, who had been refused alms by the priest; while another relates that the valley was overwhelmed because the inhabitants had murdered their liege lord, the petty King of the district.

But why it happened and how it happened does not really much matter, for there the vast field of snow is to-day, and there it will doubtless remain for many centuries to come. As has been said, you can go up to the top of it and sleigh across a portion of its summit, or you can potter round about it and examine its many glaciers.

The two largest glaciers of the Folgefond are the Buar Brae, near Odda, and the Bondhus Brae, near Sundal, and to spend a day at either of them is a real treat. But it is not wise to visit these glaciers without someone who knows them, for one might easily fall into one of the great fissures in the ice, known as crevasses, especially if lately-fallen snow had hidden the opening of the mighty crack.

A glacier, as most people know (now that everyone goes to Switzerland, if not to Norway), is nothing more than a river of ice; not a nice, clean, smooth sheet of ice, but a rough mass of frozen billows, almost blue in colour, and generally covered with sand, dust, and stones of all sizes. Wherever, beneath the edge of a snowfield, the country shapes itself into a valley, there you will find a glacier.

If you make a snowball, and keep pressing and kneading it in your hands, you will soon convert it into a solid lump of ice. That is just what the sun does to the snowfield. It keeps melting the new snow, and this presses down into the old snow, so that the weight of the whole thing squeezes out the frozen snow into the valleys in the form of glaciers. And, as this process goes on year after year, the glacier would naturally keep going lower and lower down into the valley were it not for the fact that the point (or snout, as it is termed) of the glacier very frequently breaks off, and disappears into the torrent of ice-water which flows away from it. So some glaciers, although always moving, never grow any longer, but others creep a little bit farther down each year.

There are many other interesting things about a glacier. One of them is the moraine, which consists of heaps of rocks and stones broken off from the edges of the valley by the great river of ice as it pushes its way imperceptibly forward. These rocks are embedded in the ice or borne on its surface, and are only given up when the extremity of the glacier melts away into the torrent. Some of the rocks thus transported are of immense weight, and the torrent is powerless to move them; year by year, therefore, the jumbled heap of boulders and rocks is added to until it often grows to an enormous size.

Another fine snowfield in the Hardanger district is the Joekul, a splendid white dome, whose melting snows help to swell the Voeringfos. The Joekul does not possess many large glaciers, but one of them has, in past years, been a great source of trouble to the people who live near it. This is the Rembesdal glacier, at the far end of the Simodal Valley, near Eidfjord.

The Simodal is a beautiful and fertile valley, with farms on either bank of the river, which rushes through it to the fjord. This river comes from the glacier, but not directly. The head of the valley is choked by a high cliff, over which tumbles a grand waterfall, and this issues from a large mountain lake, into the opposite end of which descends the snout of the glacier, with a continuous stream of milky water flowing from it. So far there is nothing peculiar in all this, but the peculiarity lies higher up.

Some little distance up the glacier, and almost at right angles to one side of it, is a rocky hollow or small valley, and into this the water begins to pour in the spring as soon as the sun is strong enough to begin to melt the snow. The great glacier blocks up the end of this hollow with a thick dam of ice, and before long a huge lake is formed.

What used to happen every two or three years was that the pressure of the water in this dammed-up lake became so tremendous that the glacier at last could resist it no longer. Away went the side and lower part of the glacier, and with one mighty crash the water escaped. Down into the lower lake, and over the waterfall, the wall of solid water, several feet in height, descended into the valley. There it carried destruction far and wide, sweeping away crops, cattle, farm buildings, bridges, and everything that came in its way. The loss of life also was often considerable, for there was no warning other than the roar of the water as it burst into the valley.

A few years ago, however, some Norwegian engineers devised a means of averting these terrible floods by enabling the upper lake to empty itself gradually. They constructed under the glacier an iron-lined tunnel, connecting the upper lake with the lower, and in this way the water escaped at once. So the people of Simodal can now sleep in peace.



CHAPTER XIII

DRIVING IN NORWAY

Like Switzerland, Norway has splendid roads. No difficulty in road-making seems to be too great for the Norwegian engineers to overcome. One frequently sees miles of road cut out of the solid rock of some mountain-side, and skirting the edge of a fjord or long lake. Again, a road may wind its way through a narrow gorge, with precipices a thousand feet high on either hand, and down in the depths a wild torrent, crossed every here and there by massive stone bridges; or, over the open mountains a road will zigzag upwards to a pass in long loops, like the famous "Snake Road" near Roeldal.

And the surface of all these roads is hard and kept in good repair—at any rate, in the summer months. In the winter they are, of course, thick in snow, which, when beaten down by the sleigh traffic, forms a new surface, which takes the wear and tear off the actual roadway for several months.

But we are now writing of the summer, after the snow has all melted, the snow-ploughs put on one side, and the roads recovered from the havoc wrought by the streams of melting snow. Then the sleighs have been hidden away in the innermost recesses of barns and outhouses, and the driving season begins.

Driving is one of the greatest enjoyments of Norwegian travel, though too much of it is perhaps wearisome. The best plan is to arrange a tour, so that some of it shall be by railway, some by steamer, some walking, and some driving, and this is generally easy to manage. The particular charm of driving is that the traveller can take his own time, go his own pace, and stop when and where he chooses. In this manner the scenery is capable of being more fully appreciated.

Until quite recently there were very few railways in Norway, and there are not many now. There are, however, plenty of excellent roads, and a well-organized system of posting. The posting-stations are situated about ten miles apart, and consist usually of a small inn or farmhouse, where the traveller can demand food and lodgings, as well as a change of conveyance and horses. The skydsgut (literally post-boy, but frequently an old man, or even a woman), accompanies the conveyance from his station to the next, and returns with it, though nowadays it is more usual to engage a vehicle (if not also a horse or pony) for a whole day's journey, which has the advantage of avoiding the perpetual rearrangement of one's luggage.

There are four kinds of conveyance in general use: the caleche, drawn by a pair of horses, and something like a heavily-built victoria; the trille, a light, four-wheeled trap with two horses; and the stolkjaerre and the carriole, the last two being the most popular and convenient vehicles for quick travelling.

The stolkjaerre is a rough, box-like cart, with a seat for two persons, and another little seat behind for the skydsgut. It has the advantages of ample room for luggage, and economy when travelling two together, the hire of one stolkjaerre being less than that of two carrioles; but, having no springs, it jolts and jars its occupants most unmercifully.

The carriole may be considered to be the national vehicle of Norway, and is certainly the most comfortable. In appearance it resembles a miniature buggy, and it holds one person, who can stretch his legs in a long, narrow trough between the seat and the splash-board; or, by straddling the trough, the occupant can rest his feet on two conveniently-placed iron steps. The luggage is strapped on to a board behind, and the skydsgut sits on it. A day's drive in a carriole, if the weather be fine and the pony a good one, is a real pleasure, and an intelligent skydsgut will enliven the journey with his amusing babble, as well as with scraps of information about the country traversed.

The ponies are generally about thirteen hands in height, good-tempered, sure-footed, strong, and hardy, and think nothing of doing thirty or forty miles a day, if given an occasional rest. Driving them requires no great skill, and it is best to leave them as much as possible to their own devices, since reins and bit have very little influence over their movements. One may haul on to the reins for half an hour without inducing the pony to pull up, but the magic sound of the "burr-r-r" uttered by the skydsgut will cause the little beast to stop dead. And he will not go on again until he hears the peculiar click of his master's tongue. So the stranger in the carriole or stolkjaerre will do well to hold the reins for the sake of appearances, and allow his skydsgut to do the rest.

One word of comfort to the adventurous driver: Do not be alarmed if you notice that the harness is dropping to pieces. Your henchman (up behind) will soon put matters right with some scraps of string and a few bits of stick.

But the actual drive—how lovely it all is! Now you are passing up a valley among the hayfields and orchards which border the river, and by the roadside you find a profusion of wild flowers—great purple gentians, blue harebells, yellow mountain globe flowers, and other blossoms of varied colours. Butterflies there are also in abundance, and, if you be an entomologist, your heart will rejoice at the sight of such rare English insects as the Camberwell Beauty, the Northern Brown, and others. Now you enter a dark pine-forest, to find yourself before long emerging on to an open stretch of wild moorland; and so you cross the col, and commence to drop down into another valley, narrow and shut in by towering mountains. Waterfalls sparkle in the sun as they tumble over the cliffs, and the still unmelted snow stands out white and glistering on the distant hill-tops. The road swings from side to side of the valley, crossing the torrent in its bottom by stout timber bridges, and at last you reach the margin of the great lake, where stands the neat little inn ready to provide you with your midday meal.

The organized tours, however short they be, always include a drive of this description, and no Englishman would consider that he had visited Norway unless he had driven through a part of the country. Even in a week one can cover a deal of ground. One can go by steamer from Bergen up the Hardanger Fjord to Eide, and thence drive across the neck of land to the Sogne Fjord, through the finest and most varied scenery imaginable, returning to Bergen, if needs be, by steamer down the Sogne Fjord. Or, if there be a few days to spare, one can steam across the head of the Sogne Fjord from Gudvangen to Laerdalsoeren, and thence again take carriole or stolkjaerre to the Fillefjeld, and so visit the wildest of Norway's mountain districts, the Jotunheim—the Home of the Giants.



CHAPTER XIV

ARCTIC DAYS AND NIGHTS

Everyone has read of the midnight sun and of the sunless winter of the North. They are features of all tales of Arctic exploration. Yet, in order to see the sun shining at midnight or to experience pitch-dark days, it is not necessary to be actually a seeker after the North Pole. Sunny nights and black winter days may be enjoyed, or otherwise, even in Norway, but only in the Far North—within the Arctic Circle.

It is not quite easy to realize what things are like right away up in the North, as it were, on the top of the world, and why things are as they are is difficult to explain without entering into a host of scientific details. We will, therefore, avoid a long discussion about the movements of the earth and suchlike matters, and merely mention certain facts. At the North Pole itself there is continuous day for six months of the year, and continuous night for the other six months, while on the line known as the Arctic Circle the sun shines at midnight once, and once only, in the year, and during one entire day of twenty-four hours in the winter it does not rise above the horizon at all. South of the Arctic Circle there is no such thing as midnight sun or as a day without sunrise.

As far as Norway is concerned, a considerable tract of country lies within the Arctic Circle—in fact, an area rather larger than that of Ireland—so it is not very difficult to find a place where the midnight sun can be seen for a period in the summer-time, and where in the winter some of the days are really dark. Of course, to see the midnight sun it is necessary to be at the place selected at the right time, and even then there is always the chance of the sky being clouded over, and no sun visible. For the latter reason travellers with plenty of leisure endeavour to go as far North as possible, so as to be almost certain of seeing the great sight.

Nowadays everything is made easy for everybody, and steamers take passengers to the North Cape throughout the summer for the sole purpose of enabling them to see the midnight sun from the very best point of view. Here, provided that the sky is clear, the midnight sun can be seen from May 13 to July 31. Between those dates it does not set, and it would be a bad summer indeed if the clouds hid the sun for so long a time.

To reach the North Cape takes a good deal of time, and many people dislike a lengthy sea voyage; but even if one starts from Bergen and goes all the way by sea, there is something of interest to be seen every day, as the steamer keeps close to the coast, threads its way among the innumerable small islands, and calls at many places with beautiful scenery in the background, more especially Molde and Christiansund.

A little farther on you come to Trondhjem; but if you would curtail the sea voyage it is not necessary to take the steamer from Bergen, since Trondhjem can be reached by rail from Christiania or by a driving tour right through the country from various places. Onwards from Trondhjem, however, you must go by sea, unless you are prepared for a long and rough overland journey.

Trondhjem, the ancient capital of Norway, is a place of historic interest, and contains the finest cathedral in Scandinavia. Its name means "throne home," as the old Kings of Norway used to reside there, and it was the place where the coronation ceremony was always performed. Though no longer the capital of the country, it is still a flourishing town, and the present King (Haakon VII.) was crowned there a few years ago.

Now the real sea voyage to the North Cape commences, and with luck you may reach your destination in five days, but on every one of the five you will stop somewhere or see something which will be worth seeing. The town of Namsos is of no great interest, but the coast and island scenery now becomes stupendous and grand, with great giant rocks rising up out of the sea. The most remarkable of these are Torghatten and Hestmanden.

The peculiarity of Torghatten lies in the fact that there is a hole or tunnel straight through the massive rock, which itself is some 800 feet in height. As you sail past it you see daylight through the hole, and if you land to examine it you will find that it is nearly 200 yards from end to end, and that its almost perpendicular sides vary in height from 60 feet at one end to four times that height at the other end. No man can account for this remarkable tunnel except by quoting the local legend, and in this the Hestmand (the other extraordinary rocky island) is mixed up.

Hestmanden, the "man on horseback," is a wonderful mass of rock, the outline of which, allowing for a little imagination, resembles a man on a horse. And this is the legend:

Not far from Torghatten is an island called Lekoe, on which, in the age of the giants, there lived a beautiful maiden. In those days the Hestmand was a real live giant, and he fell desperately in love with the Lekoe maiden. But the latter, who was only half a giantess, was afraid of the great monster, and would have nothing to do with him. So the Hestmand flew into a rage, and one day chased the object of his affections, who fled for her life. The giants did not do things by halves, and the Hestmand was so angry that he meant to kill the maiden, and he shot at her with a giant arrow, which was a fairly large fir-tree. Now, just at the moment that he shot his arrow, the maiden's brother, who was another giant, realized what was going on, and flung his hat between his sister and the arrow. The maiden was saved, but the arrow pierced the hat. Then the sun suddenly appeared above the horizon, and the actors in the tragedy were instantly turned into stone. Hestmanden is the wicked giant on his horse; Torghatten is the hat which was pierced by the arrow; the arrow itself may be seen, as a great stone pinnacle, on a neighbouring island; while Lekoemoen, the mountain on Lekoe, is the beautiful maiden who caused all the trouble.

But to continue the voyage. Immediately after passing Hestmanden the Arctic Circle is crossed, and a few hours later a call is made at the little town of Bodoe. Thence to the Lofoedden Islands is no great distance, and after they have been visited and the wonderful cod drying-grounds inspected, the steamer wends its way to Tromsoe, and then to Hammerfest, which we have already referred to as a great place for the manufacture of cod-liver oil. Beyond this the rocky coast presents a succession of rugged and wild capes and promontories until the object of the voyage at length comes in sight.

The North Cape, the northernmost point of Norway, is a rocky headland on Mageroe Island—the end of all things, rising a thousand feet above the deep blue Arctic sea. The climb up the steep, zigzag pathway from the spot where the steamer lands you is arduous, and you will be glad of the rest by King Oscar's column. You would have been glad if a score of other passengers had not been with you, and still more glad if you had come here half a century earlier, before the hand of man had marked the spot, and before all your distant friends expected you to post them a postcard from the North Cape.

Still, something of romance remains as, gazing northwards, you remember that, except, perhaps, for a corner of Spitzbergen, nothing intervenes between you and the North Pole—only that barrier of ice which, so far, has defied all penetration. But this is mere sentiment, and you have come to see something else—the merging of sunset with sunrise. Du Chaillu well describes the scene: "The brilliancy of the splendid orb varies in intensity, like that of sunset and sunrise, according to the state of moisture of the atmosphere. One day it will be of a deep red colour, tingeing everything with a roseate hue, and producing a drowsy effect. There are times when the changes in the colour between the sunset and sunrise might be compared to the variations of a charcoal fire, now burning with a fierce red glow, then fading away, and rekindling with greater brightness.

"There are days when the sun has a pale, whitish appearance, and when even it can be looked at for six or seven hours before midnight. As this hour approaches the sun becomes less glaring, gradually changing into more brilliant shades as it dips towards the lowest point of its course. Its motion is very slow, and for quite a while it apparently follows the line of the horizon, during which there seems to be a pause, as when the sun reaches noon. This is midnight. For a few minutes the glow of sunset mingles with that of sunrise, and one cannot tell which prevails; but soon the light becomes slowly and gradually more brilliant, announcing the birth of another day, and often before an hour has elapsed the sun becomes so dazzling that one cannot look at it with the natural eye."

Such is the wondrous sight, and all through the summer, even before and after the period of the non-setting of the sun, the nights are almost as light as day. Indeed, all over Norway, far to the south of the Arctic Circle, the summer nights are remarkably short—not altogether an unmixed blessing to those who find it difficult to sleep in daylight.

But what a change comes over these northern lands in winter! At the North Cape the sun sets on November 18, not to rise again until January 24, and everywhere within the Arctic Circle there is a time of continuous night. To us, who have no experience of such a state of affairs, it seems as if life must be bereft of all its pleasures. Yet the dwellers in the Arctic regions think nothing of it. To them even the dark winter has its charms, for, as has been said of a certain gentleman, it is not really as black as it has been painted.

In the first place, there is the snow, covering everything, and even at the darkest time of year there is sufficient light, if the sky be clear, to see to read for an hour before and an hour after midday. Then there is the light given by the moon and stars, and lastly the cheering glow of the aurora borealis,or northern lights. It is not, therefore, always dark, though when snow falls or the clouds block out the sky the darkness becomes intense. At such times the picture is truly a melancholy one.

To say that the light given by the aurora borealis does duty for sunlight is not true. Magnificent spectacle as it presents, this marvellous phenomenon produces no light of any real value, and only occasionally for a few minutes does it illumine the landscape. Tales of sleighing over the wastes of snow by the light of the aurora borealis have no foundation in fact, for seldom, if ever, has it sufficient power to obliterate the stars, and never does the moon pale before it. On the other hand, it is certain that these northern lights, streaming up into the heavens on every clear night of the long winter, must bring feelings of pleasure to the inhabitants of the Polar regions. The form, the intensity, and the colour of the light is ever varying, and thus, in watching it, there is always expectancy. We in England are accustomed to see these lights on autumn nights, but the display is feeble in comparison with that of the Arctic winter.

No one knows for certain what the aurora borealis really is, and even the most scientific people can tell you no more than that they suppose it to be "a phenomenon of electrical origin"!



CHAPTER XV

LAPLANDERS AT HOME

Although Lapps are occasionally seen in charge of reindeer herds on some of the southern mountain tracts of Norway, their real home is in the Far North, not only of Norway, but also of Sweden, Finland, and Russia, and the country which they inhabit is known as Lapland.

That portion of it which belongs to Norway covers only some 3,000 or 4,000 square miles, while the whole of the Land of the Lapps has an area of something like 35,000 square miles. But statistics show that in Norwegian Lapland there are a great many more inhabitants than there are in Russian, Finnish, and Swedish Lapland put together; and the people, whether they be under the rule of Russia, Sweden, or Norway, are all of the same race—Asiatics and Mongols—totally unlike Europeans in appearance.

In the first place, they are dark, and what we consider ugly, though it is quite possible that in their eyes we ourselves are hideous. Then they are short—a five-foot Lapp would be almost a giant—but what they lack in stature they make up in sturdiness; for, although spare of body, probably no men in the world can do a longer day's work, or survive greater hardships. Dirty they are certainly, since they never change their clothes and seldom comb their hair; yet, for all that, they are perfectly healthy and happy.

They have gradually split up into three groups, known as Mountain Lapps, Sea Lapps, and River Lapps, the first being nomads, or wanderers, and the other two settlers, by the sea or river, who have abandoned the original mode of life of their race.

Mountain Lapps are the most restless individuals it is possible to imagine. Winter and summer they are always on the move, and three days are seldom passed in one place. Time does not enslave them, for they do not trouble about it. Routine is nothing to them: they eat and drink when they feel inclined, and they sleep when a favourable opportunity occurs. In such matters, as well as in many others, they resemble wild animals. But in some respects they are methodical: they work by the seasons, and in their wanderings take the same lines each year. In the summer months they are down by the sea; during the remainder of the year they are on the mountains, though at Christmas-time they usually arrange to encamp somewhere in the vicinity of a church; for Christmas is a great event in the lives of the Lapps, since they profess Christianity, and if they are able to go to church at no other time of the year, they make a point of doing so at this season.

To-day these people are law-abiding and peaceable, but they are a strange mixture of good and bad. They are kind and hospitable, and of a cheerful disposition; at the same time they can be cruel, cunning, and selfish, while their love of money is no less than their love of drink—when they can obtain it.

For one thing only does the Mountain Lapp live—his herd of reindeer. They provide all his wants—food, clothing, and the wherewithal to purchase luxuries. They are his wealth; his very existence depends on them, and, in consequence, his mode of living has to be accommodated to the habits of his reindeer. Whither-soever they choose to graze, their owner has to follow; and he deems it no hardship to pitch his rough tent on the snowy wastes in winter, or even to sleep out under a rock, with the thermometer at seventy degrees below zero. It is his life; from earliest childhood he has known none other; he is content with it. And it is not only the men who pass their lives thus; for the Lapp family is to some extent a united one, and the women and children thoroughly enjoy the wild, free life, apparently suffering no ill effects from the rigours of the climate.

A Lapp baby starts life in a very queer way. Until it is able to walk it is kept in what is called a komse, a kind of cradle made of strips of wood covered with leather, and just large enough to take the baby. The little creature is rolled up in sheepskin and put into the cradle, which is then stuffed with moss, and the leather covering laced securely all around, so that only the baby's face is seen. To protect its head the komse is provided with a wooden hood, like most cradles, and there is generally a shawl, which can be thrown over the whole thing in severe weather; in fact, when the baby has been properly done up in its komse, it might go by parcel post without coming to much harm. It is a very excellent arrangement, because the family is incessantly moving about, and the mothers have their work to do, so cannot always be bothering about their babies. A thong of leather stretches from head to foot of the komse, which the mother can thus sling on her shoulder when going about, and by this thong the baby can be hung up to a tent-pole or to the branch of a tree if its mother is busy. But as often as not the komses are just stuck up on end in the snow or against a rock while work is going on.

As soon as the child can walk and has finished its cradle existence, it is dressed in clothes similar to those of his or her father or mother, and looks most quaint. And the life which these children lead is devoid of much amusement. From the beginning they are helping to pack up and move the tent, and to look after the reindeer; they are nothing more than little old men and women; their toys are miniatures, or models, of such things as they will have to use later in life—lassoes, snowshoes, sleighs—and their games are restricted to learning the use of the same. They are treated by their parents more or less as if they were grown up, and allowed to do much as they please. Consequently, they become self-willed, and have little respect for their elders.

After all, the mode of life of the Lapps does not differ very greatly from that of our own gipsies, though of the two the Lapps are certainly the better people. The wandering spirit is inherent in both, but a portion of each sooner or later shakes it off, and leads a more settled life. Some there are, however, who will never be anything but wanderers, so long as there remains a free country wherein they are at liberty to roam.

Let us now see the kind of place which the Mountain Lapp calls "home." It cannot be anything very elaborate or bulky, as it has to be packed up and moved about nearly every day, and it has to be carried on the backs of the reindeer in summer, or drawn by them in sleighs in the winter. So it is nothing more than a most unconventional form of tent, not altogether unlike the wigwam of the Red Indian, or the dwelling of many other nomadic people. A few long poles are stuck up on a circle, with their ends fastened together to form a sort of cone, and over this framework is stretched a covering of coarse woollen material. At one side there is a loose flap, forming a door, and the whole of the top part of the tent round about the ends of the poles is left open, to admit light and to allow the smoke from the fire to issue forth. The diameter of the tent is about twelve or fifteen feet, and the height in the centre eight or ten feet. This is the kitchen, larder, store-room, drawing-room, dining-room, and bedroom of the family—men, women, boys, girls, babies, dogs and all.

A few branches of trees are spread on the ground, and in the middle, immediately under the opening in the roof, is the fire, which is kept alight day and night. Around it the inmates sit on the ground by day, and sleep by night. There is no furniture of any kind, and only a few cooking-pots, with some wooden bowls, and spoons of wood or of horn. Beds and blankets and suchlike luxuries are also absent, so undressing, dressing, washing, and absurdities of that kind are not indulged in. When the time has come to go to sleep, those who are in the tent just roll themselves close up to the fire, and sleep quite comfortably in the clothes which they probably have not taken off for a year or two. The whole family is not likely to be in the tent at the same time; some members of it must always be looking after the reindeer, as the herd can never be left to its own devices; consequently, there is generally plenty of room.

Meals are free-and-easy affairs; there is no dinner-bell and no fixed time for eating. But food is always ready, hanging in a pot over the fire; and when anyone feels inclined to eat, the hand is plunged into the pot, and a piece of meat pulled out and devoured. In addition to reindeer-meat—of which the Lapps consume a great deal—the food consists of cheese, and sometimes a kind of porridge; while for drink they have water, melted snow, reindeer-milk, and, on occasions, coffee. The latter they are very fond of, but few families can afford to drink it often; so also with spirits, which, however, they only manage to obtain in the towns.

Thus live the Mountain Lapps year in year out. To-day a family is in one place, to-morrow a dozen miles away; now and again other families are met with, and received hospitably; but for the most part the family and its herd keep to themselves, since to do otherwise might lead to difficulties about grazing. The rain floods their tent; the snow buries it; the wind blows it down; yet they survive, and glory in their free life.

The Sea Lapps, though much more numerous than their brethren of the mountains, are not so interesting. They live by the coast in huts built of wood or of sods, and obtain a livelihood by fishing. The River Lapps, on the other hand, are both herdsmen and fishermen. Residing in small settlements on the banks of the rivers, they keep reindeer as well as a few cows and sheep, and they do a little in the way of farming the land round the settlement. Many of them are even intellectual, and the advantages of having their children properly educated in the schools are gradually becoming appreciated.



CHAPTER XVI

WINTER IN CHRISTIANIA

Cold it is, of course—bitterly cold, and always freezing hard; but it is a dry cold, and you hardly notice it. The streets are all one sheet of frozen snow, and great care is taken to keep them in good repair, gangs of road-menders being always at hand to fill up ruts by the simple process of picking up the hard snow of the roadway and then sprinkling a little water on the top, which at once produces a solid surface. No wheeled traffic is now to be seen; everything is on runners, from the carriage of the King to the doll's perambulator. One no longer hears the rumble of the carrioles and stolkjaerres over the rough flags, and the silence is broken only by the jingling of the sleigh-bells.

It is a strange sight indeed, this winter city, with its fur-clad men and women, and snow-covered houses and gardens, its keen, crisp air and pale blue sky. What a change from the fogs and dampness of our English climate!

Christiania is gay at this time of year, for it is the "season." The members of the Storthing, with their wives and families, are in town for the session, and all sorts of gaieties are in progress. But all those Norwegians who have leisure to enjoy themselves turn their attentions to the real pleasures of winter—sleighing, ski-ing, tobogganing, and skating. The boys and girls are thoroughly happy. Directly school is over away they go, with their skates, snowshoes, or toboggans, to have a right good time in their different playgrounds. The hill on which the palace stands is given up to these little revellers, and in the evenings dozens of them of all ages may be seen descending the slopes face downwards on their kjaelker, or racing through the trees with their long ski on their feet. The public gardens also are flooded to form a rink for the sole use of the infant skaters, and, judging by their rosy cheeks, the outdoor exercise in the cold, dry air makes them as healthy as any children in the world.

But grown-up people consider skating feeble sport in comparison with ski-ing, which may be called the national sport of Norway. Not so many years ago it was restricted to that country; but now the sport has become a favourite one in Sweden, Switzerland, and in other parts of Europe where the snow lies deep. Yet, to see perfection in the art, one must go to Norway—the real home of the great long wooden snowshoe. From earliest youth the Norwegians of both sexes are accustomed to go about the country in the long winter months on these strange contrivances, for without them it would be absolutely impossible to move off the roads. Children are taught in the schools to use them; soldiers wear them at winter drill and manoeuvres; farmers, milkmaids, cowboys, all may be seen daily in the country parts going from place to place on them, and so keen are the young rustic lads on becoming proficient ski-runners that all over Norway are to be found ski clubs, formed for the purpose of encouraging snowshoeing as a pastime, and for sending competitors to the great annual meeting at Christiania.

These snowshoe competitions are most interesting and exciting; and the pluck, endurance, and daring which they bring out are remarkable. They take place on the hills just outside Christiania, and are attended by every man, woman, and child who can reach the spot. On the first day is held the long-distance race, and on the second the jumping competition, only winners in the former being allowed to enter for the latter.

Every English boy knows what it is to take part in a cross-country run of half a dozen miles. The Norwegian test is something more formidable—about fifteen miles of rough, mountainous country, over hill and dale, through forests, and as often as not down rocky precipices, all half buried in snow; in the runner's hand a staff, and on his feet his ski, six or eight feet long. The course is carefully marked out beforehand by tying pieces of coloured rag to branches and rocks, and it is a point-to-point race throughout. Every district sends its champion, and there are frequently as many as eighty competitors, who are started one after another at intervals of a minute. Except, however, for expert ski-runners who can follow the course, it is not an interesting race to watch, as one only sees the start or the finish, to learn subsequently who covered the distance in the shortest time.

The appearance of the men as they come in is sufficient proof of the terrific nature of the test. So bathed in perspiration are they that they might have been running a "Marathon" race in the height of summer; and so parched are their tongues that they can scarcely speak. Lucky the skier who, during his run, chances on an unfrozen forest pool whereat he may quench his thirst by deep draughts of what the Norwegian terms "goosewine"—our "Adam's ale."

But the second day's sport is of a different kind; the whole thing is visible to the spectators, who from first to last are subjected to thrills of wild excitement. The ground selected for the contest is the side of a somewhat steep hill, and the snow must be in proper condition—deep, and not having a hard-frozen crust. The competitors assemble on the summit, and at the bottom of the slope—perhaps a hundred yards from the starting-point—is a large enclosed space, around which stand the spectators. Half-way down the hillside, a horizontal platform, well covered with hard snow, has been built out, so as to form the "taking-off" point for the long jump; and close by it is the box for the judges and committee. The soldiers on ski, keeping the ground, give the signal that all is ready; in another second a bugle-call resounds from the top of the hill; and the first man has started.

Down the slope he comes at the top of his speed, his fists clenched, and determination in his face. Gathering himself together as he nears the "take-off," he bends slightly on his ski, and, with a frantic bound, flies forward into space. For an instant a breathless silence falls on the crowd, and then, as the ski-loeber lands at the bottom, and struggles in vain to keep his feet, cheers mingled with laughter fill the air. Number 2 is no more successful than his predecessor; but Number 3 lands on both feet with much grace, continues his way on level ground, and, wheeling round, receives the well-merited applause of the onlookers. Others follow in quick succession, some making brilliant leaps, some having awkward spills; yet one and all racing down to the platform with almost abandoned recklessness. What with the delay caused by accidents, and the time taken in measuring the successful jumps, the contest occupies some hours. Then the judges declare the names of the prize-winners, together with the length of each man's leap; and, prodigious as it may seem, it is no unusual thing for the champion to accomplish 100 feet, measured on the slope from the "take-off" to the landing-point.

Such are some of the winter sports of Norway. Can anyone wonder that the men who enter into them with so great a zest have earned for themselves the name of "Hardy Norsemen"? Can anyone wonder that Dr. Nansen, in his younger days the champion ski-loeber at one of these great meetings, should have defeated all others in the race for the North Pole?



NOTES

[1] Pronounced Nor-gay.

[2] Frontispiece.

THE END