Chapter VIISome Fairy TalesNorwegian children are just as fond of fairy stories as are any other children, and they are lucky in having a great number, for that famous story-teller, Hans Christian Andersen, was a Dane, and as the Danish language is very like the Norwegian, his stories were probably known in Norway long before they were known in England. But the Norwegians have plenty of other stories of their own, and they love to sit by the fire of burning logs or round the stove in the long winter evenings and listen to them. Of course, they know all about people like Cinderella and Jack the Giant-Killer, but their favourite hero is called by the name of Ashpot, who is sometimes a kind of boy Cinderella and sometimes a Jack the Giant-Killer.The following are two stories which the little yellow-haired Norse children gloat over:Once upon a time there was a man who had been out cutting wood, and when he came home he found that he had left his coat behind, so he told his little daughter to go and fetch it. The child started off, but before she reached the wood darkness came on, and suddenly a great big hill-giant swooped down upon her.“Please, Mr. Giant,” said she, trembling all over, “don’t take me away to-night, as father wants his coat; but to-morrow night, if you will come when I go to thestabburto fetch the bread, I will go away with you quite quietly.”So the giant agreed, and the next night, when she went to fetch the bread, he came and carried her off. As soon as it was found that she was missing, her father sent her eldest brother to look for her, but he came back without finding her. The second brother was also sent, but with no better result. At last the father turned to his youngest son, who was the drudge of the house, and said: “Now, Ashpot, you go and see if you can find your sister.”So away went Ashpot, and no sooner had he reached the wood than he met a bear.“Friend bear,” said Ashpot, “will you help me?”“Willingly,” answered the bear. “Get up on my back.”And Ashpot mounted the bear’s back and rode off. Presently they met a wolf.“Friend wolf,” said Ashpot, “will you do some work for me ?”“Willingly,” answered the wolf.“Then jump up behind,” said Ashpot, and the three went on deeper into the wood.They next met a fox, and then a hare, both of whom were enlisted into Ashpot’s service, and, mounted on the back of the bear, were swiftly carried off to the giant’s abode.“Good-day, Mr. Giant!” said they.“Scratch my back!” roared the giant, who lay stretched in front of the fire warming himself.The hare immediately climbed up and began to scratch as desired; but the giant knocked him over, and down he fell on to the hearth-stone, breaking off his fore-legs, since which time all hares have had short fore-legs.The fox next clambered up to scratch the giant’s back, but he was served like the hare. Then the wolf’s turn came, but the giant said that he was no better at scratching than the others.“Youscratch me!” shouted the giant, turning impatiently to the bear.“All right,” answered Bruin; “I know all about scratching,” and he forthwith dug his claws into the giant’s back and ripped it into a thousand pieces.Then all the beasts danced on the dead body of the monster, and Ashpot recovered his sister and took her home, carrying off, at the same time, all the giant’s gold and silver. The bear and the wolf burst into the cattle-sheds and devoured all the cows and sheep, the fox feasted in the henroost, while the hare had the free run of the oatfield. So everyone was satisfied.The other story is also about Ashpot, whose two elder brothers still treated him very badly, and eventually turned him out of his home. Poor Ashpot wandered away up into the mountains, where he met a huge giant. At first he was terribly afraid, but after a little while he told the giant what had happened to him, and asked him if he could find a job for him.“You are just the very man I want,” said the giant. “Come along with me.”The first work to be done was to make a fire to brew some ale, so they went off together to the forest to cut firewood. The giant carried a club in place of an axe, and when they came to a large birch-tree he asked Ashpot whether he would like to club the tree down or climb up and hold the top of it. The boythought that the latter would suit him best, and he soon got up to the topmost branches and held on to them. But the giant gave the tree such a blow with his club as to knock it right out of the ground, sending Ashpot flying across the meadows into a marsh. Luckily he landed on soft ground, and was none the worse for his adventure; and they soon managed to get the tree home, when they set to work to make a fire.But the wood was green, and would not burn, so the giant began to blow. At the first puff Ashpot found himself flying up to the ceiling as if he had been a feather, but he managed to catch hold of a piece of birch-bark among the rafters, and on reaching the ground again he told the giant that he had been up to get something to make the fire burn.The fire was soon burning splendidly, and the giant commenced to brew the ale, drinking it off as fast as it was made. Ashpot watched him getting gradually drunk, and heard him mutter to himself, “To-night I will kill him,” so he began to think of a plan to outwit his master. When he went to bed he placed the giant’s cream-whisk between the sheets as a dummy, while he himself crept under the bedstead.In the middle of the night, just as he had expected, he heard the giant come into his room, and then there was a tremendous whack as the giant brought his club down on to the bed. Next morning the boy came out of his room as if nothing had happened, and his master was very much surprised to find him still alive.“Hullo!” said the giant. “Didn’t you feel anything in the night?”“I did feel something,” said Ashpot; “but I thought that it was only a sausage-peg that had fallen on the bed, so I went to sleep again.”The giant was more astonished than ever, and went off to consult his sister, who lived in a neighbouring mountain, and was about ten times his size. At length it was settled that the giantess should set her cooking-pot on the fire, and that Ashpot should be sent to see her, when she was to tip him into the caldron and boil him. In the course of the day the giant sent the boy off with a message to his sister, and when he reached the giantess’s dwelling he found her busy cooking. But he soon saw through her design, and he took out of his pocket a nut with a hole in it.“Look here,” he said, showing the nut to the ogress, “you think you can do everything. I will tell you one thing that you can’t do: you can’t make yourself so small as to be able to creep into the hole in this nut.”“Rubbish!” replied the giantess. “Of course I can!”And in a moment she became as small as a fly, and crept into the nut, whereupon Ashpot hurled it into the fire, and that was the end of the giantess.The boy was so delighted that he returned to his old tyrant the giant and told him what had happened to his sister. This set the big man thinking again as to how he was to rid himself of this sharp-witted little nuisance. He did not understand boys, and he was afraid of Ashpot’s tricks, so he offered him as much gold and silver as he could carry if he would go away and never return. Ashpot, however, replied that the amount he could carry would not be worth having,and that he could not think of going unless he got as much as the giant could carry.The giant, glad to get rid of him at any cost, agreed, and, loading himself with gold and silver and precious stones, he set out with the boy towards his home. When they reached the outskirts of the farms they saw a herd of cattle, and the giant began to tremble.“What sort of beasts are these?” he asked.“They are my father’s cows,” replied Ashpot, “and you had better put down your burden and run back to your mountain, or they may bite you.”The giant was only too happy to get away, so, depositing his load, which was as big as a small hill, he made off, and left the boy to carry his treasure home by himself.So enormous was the amount of the valuables that it was six years before Ashpot succeeded in removing everything from the field where the giant had set it down; but he and all his relations were rich people for the rest of their lives.Chapter VIIIThe Hardanger FjordAll that is grand, all that is beautiful, will be found in the Hardanger—the “Smiling Hardanger,” as the Norwegians themselves call it; and even if an English visitor went nowhere else, he would have seen typical Norwegian scenery of every possible kind.The easiest way to go there is from Bergen, and most people bent on a tour in Norway make a start eitherfrom Christiania or from Bergen. Bergen itself claims to be the most beautiful town in the country, and it really is a lovely spot, with its old wooden houses all around the harbour, full of picturesque shipping, and with its amphitheatre of bold mountains rising upwards almost from the centre of the town. But Bergen has its drawbacks, and the principal one is that it rains every day, or nearly every day.To reach the Hardanger from Bergen, and to go from one end of the fjord to the other, you take a passage in one of the comfortable little local steamers, and you begin your journey early in the morning. It is a very pleasant way of travelling, as you sit on deck all day and enjoy the scenery, and only go down to the saloon at meal-times. If you do not wish to go all the way to the very end of the fjord, there are numbers of pretty little places where you can break your journey. But if you like you can travel throughout the day and finish up late at night at Odda, or at Vik-i-Eidfjord, each of which is at the head of a branch of the Hardanger Fjord.Let us take our tickets right through to Eidfjord, make a good long day of it, and see what there is to be seen. For some little time after leaving the harbour we see nothing of great interest, only a few graceful-looking barges in full sail, reminding us of the pictures of the old Viking ships, and flocks of seagulls fluttering and screaming round the stern of our boat. Then the steamer begins to pick its way through the scattered islands, some of which are mere barren granite rocks, others partially cultivated, and with neat little farmsteads lying snug in the valleys.So we go on for an hour or two, occasionally stopping off a small group of farms, to land, perhaps, a farmer returning from the Bergen market, or a girl coming home from her situation in the town. Presently we come alongside a pier under an overhanging cliff, and we see the name of the place written up on a board, just like the name of a railway-station. This is Godösund, a favourite holiday haunt of the Bergen people. It is not a town or even a village, but just a châlet-like hotel of two or three buildings, standing on the side of a fir-clad hill, in the midst of a fairyland of creeks and wooded islets—as pretty a spot as one could wish to see.Now we are nearing the Hardanger Fjord; we pass through the narrow straits known as the Löksund, and we enter the fjord. Glorious and ever-changing views open out before us, as hour after hour the steamer passes from one small station to another, dropping a mail-bag, and perhaps a passenger or two. We pass farms lying close to the shore, the wooden houses being in many cases painted red or white, and thus forming a brilliant contrast to the blue-black mountains and dark green forests which rise up behind them. We see every now and then a clean white wooden church, and, away up on the mountain-sides we can discern tiny specks, which, we are told, are the sæter dwellings.Sometimes the steamer is out in the middle of the fjord, which, in parts, is five miles or more in width, but at other times we find ourselves close in to a rocky precipice, and wondering how it will be possible to avoid grounding. Above us the mountain-side rises perpendicularly to a height of, it may be, 3,000 or4,000 feet; and, looking down into the clear water, we can see that it is ever so deep. As a matter of fact, the chart tells us that hereabouts it is a little more than 2,000 feet in depth.Soon we reach the bay in which is Rosendal, where one could spend a very pleasant week or so, with trout fishing to be had in the streams and lakes, and mountain walks up to the edge of the great Folgefond snowfield. The steamer calls for a few minutes, and then goes on up the beautiful little branch fjord known as the Mauranger, at the extremity of which lies Sundal.The scenery here is delightful, and especially so at the spot where the Bondhus Valley is seen stretching down to the fjord. Half-way up the valley a round-topped mountain appears to bar the way, and farther off a blue-grey glacier—the Bondhus Bræ—is seen falling from the white snowfield, and choking the head of the vale.Those who have the mind to do so can wander up to the glacier, sleep the night at a sæter, and on the following day hire a sleigh, and career for miles over the vast field of perpetual snow, right across the headland to Odda. And great is the joy of plunging suddenly, on a hot August day, into the depths of winter.But our steamer does not stay here long—only long enough to put some Norwegian passengers on shore, and take fresh ones on board. This occupies some time, however, for Norse people, and especially the ladies, refuse to be hurried. It is amusing to watch them starting on their travels. All their friends come to see them off, although it is quite possible that the traveller is only going to the next station on the fjord,not a dozen miles away. Each friend bears some small package—a pot of cranberry jam, a basket of apples or cherries, a bag of cakes, or something of that kind. The gaily-painted wooden trunks and thetinersare stowed away on board; and then the “farvels” commence, with kisses and handshakes, and pats on the back, and many last words until the bell rings for the steamer’s departure, when a lady passenger suddenly discovers that she has left something behind. The wildest confusion follows, and away run all the friends to fetch it from the house, returning just in time. Then the good-byes begin again, and as the steamer finally departs, everyone shouts, “Farvel! farvel! farvel!” frequently and rapidly; hats are raised, and handkerchiefs continue waving until the boat can no longer be seen.Godösund, Hardanger FjordGodösund, Hardanger FjordPage39.Returning down the Mauranger Fjord we steam out across the main fjord, and early in the afternoon call at several small places on the northern shore—Bakke, Vikingnæs, Nordheimsund—each with its spruce hotel, enticing the traveller to loiter and explore the country in the neighbourhood. A little later we enter the Fiksensund, a narrow branch fjord, and a wonder of wonders. For a distance of seven miles it wends its way amongst the mountains. In places the precipitous hillsides are within a hundred yards of each other, and in no part is this extraordinary fjord-arm a third of a mile in width. For thousands of feet sheer out of the water rise the bold walls of granite, with here and there a ledge thickly wooded with fir and birch. It looks as if the mountains had been torn asunder to admit the sea, and local legends say that a spiteful giantess did this and many other nasty things in the giant age. Half-wayup the fjord the steamer fires a gun, so that the passengers may hear the echo, and the sound comes back time after time from every nook and cranny. At the end is Botnen, with a road running away north to other farms, and eventually to the railway from Bergen to Vossevangen.Again we return to the main fjord, and before long enter the Gravensfjord, wherein lies Eide, a kind of junction of the steamer-routes, and a very touristy place, as there is a good driving-road to Voss. The Bergen steamer continues its way up the Sörfjord to Odda, which is reached late at night; but we, who are bound for Eidfjord, change into a small branch steamer, and are soon rounding a mighty headland, and, if there is any wind, getting a tossing for a few minutes, the fjord just here being wide and open. The head of a seal may occasionally be seen bobbing up and down, and large flocks of duck are always swimming about at a respectful distance from the steamer. And what a view we have across the expanse of water! The never-ending mountains stretch away one behind the other, to be crowned in the distance by the dazzling white snowfield, lighted up by the fast sinking sun.And when the sun goes down the scenery, as we steam on, changes each moment. In the twilight the granite cliffs stand out black and uninviting, and the country looks cold and grey. It may be that we are tired of the long journey, for with the growing darkness comes the feeling that something to eat and bed would be pleasant things. Then the steamer’s whistle makes us spring to our feet, and, peering ahead, we see lights on the Vik jetty and in the hotel close by. In afew minutes we are in Næsheim’s comfortable dining-room, enjoying our well-deserved supper after a day of days on Norway’s most glorious fjord.Chapter IXA Glimpse of the Fjelds“Fjeld-weather” is the Norwegian term for fine, warm, bright days. It implies that the weather is suitable for a tour on the mountains. But, alas! it is not the weather that is always encountered there, for even in the summer the climate of the high plateau is ever varying, and though there may be a long spell of fine, hot weather, with a glorious crisp air, yet at any moment a change of the wind may bring a week of soaking rain, sleet, possibly snow, and a fall of temperature by twenty degrees. That is no time for the fjelds, and the traveller is better off in a fjordside hotel.Given fine weather, there is no more splendid touring ground than the highlands of Norway, where, at a height of anything up to 4,000 or 5,000 feet above the sea, stretch thousands of square miles of wild and uninhabited moorland, cut up with numerous large lakes, and clothed only with a dwarf vegetation. Such parts usually lie off the beaten track, and to reach them means an expedition—heavy, uphill walking for two or three days, with the baggage carried on the backs of ponies.If you were going to undertake an expedition to these high fjelds, you would probably make a startfrom the lowlands by following some well-worn track leading to a sæter. In nine cases out of ten the track will be running by the side of a river, at first wide and flowing lazily through the valley, but soon narrowing, until its upper waters become a rushing mountain torrent, swishing between mighty boulders. After a while you find that the path gradually begins to ascend by zigzags up the mountain-side, and the scenery, whenever you pause to look down, is magnificent. In time you reach the upland pastures, with here and there a sæter-dwelling, and this is the end of the first stage of your journey, for you probably will have climbed some 2,000 feet and walked a dozen miles or more. Thus you will be glad enough to accept the hospitality offered to you by the simple peasants.All these sæter-huts are much alike, though, of course, they vary in size and in the way in which they are fitted up; but as they are only occupied during the summer months, luxurious fittings are not considered a necessity. The outer walls are constructed of fir-trunks, let into one another at the corners on the log-hut principle, and the interior is lined with boarding. In some parts, however, where timber is scarce the buildings are of stone.The roof consists of rough planks, on which is placed a layer of birch-bark to fill in the cracks; and on the top, again, are laid sods of earth to a thickness of about a foot. Grass and weeds soon cover the roof, binding it together and keeping the rain out.The door opens into a dark hall or chamber, which serves as a receptacle for rubbish of all kinds—fishing-nets, tools, skins, empty milk-pans, and the like; andin the corner is a roughly-built fireplace for boiling the milk and for cooking. On one side of this hall is the door into the sole living apartment, which possesses a window at one end, and against one of the side walls a couple of bunks, wherein three or four dairymaids sleep.Sometimes there is a separate room, or even a detached hut, for the dairy work; but there is generally only the one room, the milk being set in large, shallow wooden vessels on a number of shelves fixed against one of the walls. Everything is scrupulously clean, and the cattle women are working hard all the long daylight hours. Periodically a man from the farm in the lowlands comes up to the sæter with a couple of ponies and takes down butter and cheese, and such visits are the only excitement in sæter-life.If you have time to linger here for a day or two you will be made welcome, and you will find plenty to interest you. The views down into the deep valleys and away to the fjords in the distance are always delightful, and there may be a stream with pools holding trout worth trying for. The tiny rivulets which trickle down from the hills are lined with ferns and forget-me nots, and elsewhere may be seen flowers of every hue—red Alpine catchfly, blue meadow cranesbill, hawksweed, wild radis, and a score of other pretty things.But the greatest joy of all is the sight of a wide marsh covered with the deliciousmultebær, whose luscious, yellow fruit and gold-red leaves brighten the country-side. This is the cloudberry, found in Scotland and in the North of England, and to come on a stretch of this fruit after a long, hot walk is a thing worth living for.Besides this best of all Norse wild fruits, the fjelds produce many excellent berries, such as crowberries, whortleberries, marsh whortleberries, bearberries, dewberries, cranberries, and others. The children of the country parts all over Norway spend much of their time in feasting on these little fruits, and during the summer and autumn months their hands and faces are generally well stained with the dark juice.Upwards, beyond these pleasant pastures, when you have left behind the last sæter-shanty and the last thicket of birches, you reach a world where, except for the scattered Tourist Club huts and their summer caretakers, you cannot count on coming across either dwelling or human being.Wandering far afield, you may meet a couple of Lapps with their herd of reindeer, and down by one of the tarns you may chance on a rough stone shelter, inhabited for the time being by two Norwegian fishermen, whose nets are laid in the mountain lake.All over this lofty wilderness the snow lies deep for several months of the year, but as soon as it begins to thaw it disappears rapidly, when, as in Switzerland, Nature’s garden immediately blossoms forth in all its glory. It must be confessed, however, that the carpet of Alpine flowers on the Norwegian high-fjelds cannot compare with that of Switzerland. On the great mountain plateau of Norway everything gives way to the lichen-like reindeer moss, and the flowers are merely in patches, or growing in masses only in those swampy parts where the moss does not thrive.The fjelds furnish a recreation-ground for the Norwegian townsman. There he can lead the life that heloves best, and one week of the wilds will set him up for the remainder of the year. Even though he cares nothing for shooting or fishing, the sense of freedom as he does his daily tramp delights his soul. And his wife or his sister as often as not will accompany him, for the Norwegian ladies are brave walkers, and know how to rough it.But the majority of Norsemen are good sportsmen and good fishermen, and in most seasons there are plenty of fjeld-ryper to be shot and good hauls of trout to be made in the mountain lakes and connecting streams.But what is the country like up here on the very summit of everything? It is called a plateau; but that does not mean that it is absolutely level, for, as a matter of fact, there is no part of it level enough to be made into a football ground. It is all up and down, and every here and there are low hills, with occasionally great prominent, rounded mountain-tops, rising to a height of 500 or 600 feet above the plateau. Then there are chains of lakes, often several miles in length, acres of swampy ground in every direction, shallow ravines filled with a jumble of rocks and boulders, and constant sand mounds, partly overgrown with grass and dwarf juniper. And up here are the snowfields, about which we shall have more to say presently.It is all weird and wild and wonderful, and if there be no wind the silence is intense, and only broken by the bark of an Arctic fox from some rocky hillside or by the plaintive call of a golden plover.Why, it may be asked, should anyone wish to go to such a desolate place? Only to shoot or to fish, togather in a store of the purest air in the world, or perhaps to enjoy a period of calm and quiet solitude—world-forgetting, by the world forgot.A Sæter, Vetle FjordA Sæter, Vetle FjordPage44.Chapter XWild Nature—BeastsIn a country like Norway, with its vast forests and waste moorlands, it is only natural to find a considerable variety of animals and birds. Some of these are peculiar to Scandinavia. Some, though only occasionally met with in the British Isles, are not rare in Norway; whilst others (more especially among the birds) are equally common in both countries.There was a time when the people of England lived in a state of fear and dread of the ravages of wolves and bears, and the Norwegians of the country districts even now have to guard their flocks and herds from these destroyers. Except in the forest tracts of the Far North, however, bears are not numerous, but in some parts, even in the South, they are sufficiently so to be a nuisance, and are ruthlessly hunted down by the farmers. As far as wolves are concerned civilization is, fortunately, driving them farther afield each year, and only in the most out-of-the-way parts are they ever encountered nowadays. Stories of packs of hungry wolves following in the wake of a sleigh are still told to the children in Norway, but they relate to bygone times—half a century or more ago, and such wild excitements no longer enter into the Norsemen’s lives.Yet less ferocious animals give the people troubleenough, and amongst these may be mentioned the lynx and the wolverine, or glutton, each of which will make his supper off a sheep or a goat if he gets the chance. Of the two the lynx is perhaps the worse poacher, and his proverbial sharpness renders him difficult to catch. Not so the glutton, who, if he succeeds in crawling through a hole in the fence of a sheepfold, stuffs himself so full that he cannot get out again. I think that most of us would rather be called lynx-eyed than gluttonous, and certainly a lynx is a much handsomer beast than a glutton.With the exception of the rabbit, all our English animals are found in Norway—the badger, fox, hare, otter, squirrel, hedgehog, polecat, stoat, and the rest of them. But besides these there are little Arctic foxes and Arctic hares, with bluish-grey coats in the summer and snowy-white ones in the winter. This change of colour is a provision of Nature, rendering these particular animals, and some birds also, almost invisible among the snows. The ermine is another instance of this. In summer he is just an ugly little brown stoat; but in winter he comes out in pure white, with a jet-black tip to his tail, a skin worth a lot of money.Of all these small Norwegian animals perhaps the most interesting is the lemming, who, for some reason best known to himself, does not trouble to put on a white coat in the winter, but keeps to his stripy jacket all the year round. He lives everywhere—up on the mountains and down in the valleys, and is hardly as large as an ordinary rat; but woe betide the dog that brings him to bay, for if he finds his road to escape barred, he will sit up and fight to the death, and heknows how to bite. Yet he would much rather run away if he could, as in ordinary life he is quite peacefully inclined, and feeds on nothing more than grass and herbs and roots.But there is a peculiarity about the lemming which makes the country-folk of Norway more afraid of him than of any other animal. In most years you may wander about the country for weeks and never see a lemming, but occasionally there comes what is called a “lemming-year,” when more young lemmings are born than usual, and then the trouble begins. They eat up everything round about their homes, and they begin to wander in search of food in packs of thousands, like swarms of locusts. The farmers try to destroy them, but they soon give up the attempt, as for days and days the lemmings come on in great waves, eating up the grass and the crops wherever they pass. Except the sea, nothing will stop them when once they have made a start; they come down the mountain-sides, swim the rivers and streams, rush through the forests, and, eating as they go, devastate the farm-lands. They do not wander hither and thither, but keep to the same direction straight ahead, until they eventually reach the sea. Whether they think that it is only another river to be crossed, or whether they think that they have done enough damage for one lifetime, nobody knows; but into the sea they all plunge madly, and, of course, are soon drowned.This, however, does not end the nuisance, for thousands of them die as they sweep over the country, leaving their dead bodies to poison the water, and thus making the people ill with what they term “lemmingfever.” So the pretty little lemmings are on occasions more to be dreaded than are even bears and wolves, but fortunately “lemming-years” do not come round very often, and the whole country is not visited by the pest at the same time. They made their last big raid in several districts in 1902, and they may come swarming down from the mountains again any summer.I must now say something about the wild animals which are helpful to the people in that they provide them with food and bring money to their pockets. Foxes and other fur-bearing animals will always fetch good prices. There are also the hares, especially the white ones, which are shot and snared in winter-time in great quantities, and sold all over Europe. You may see them hanging up in the poulterers’ shops in London. Then there is that huge beast, the elk, almost as big as a small horse, who roams about the forests like his Canadian brother, the moose, and is hunted and shot for his flesh, skin, and massive flat horns. Red deer there are also in some parts of Norway; but the animal of greatest interest is undoubtedly the reindeer.Up on the great mountain plateaux there are still plenty of wild reindeer roaming about in large herds, and numbers of them are shot every autumn by the farmers, who sell the skins, and dry the meat to be eaten in the winter months. It is, however, the so-called tame reindeer which are so invaluable to the people of the North. Without them it would be difficult, if not impossible, for the Laplanders to exist, and without them thousands of Norwegians would be poor indeed.It is a popular idea that, in the winter, reindeer drawthe sleighs all over Norway. As a matter of fact, it is only in the extreme North, among the Lapps, that reindeer are employed for this kind of work; and very few Europeans ever have the opportunity of enjoying a drive in a reindeer “pulk,” as the queer sleigh is called. That the experience is most exhilarating and exciting is certain. In the first place, there is only one trace, connecting a kind of shoulder harness with the forepart of the sleigh; again, there is only one rein coming from a collar round the deer’s neck, and consequently driving a reindeer as we drive a horse is, of course, out of the question. All that it is possible to do is to head him in the required direction, and hope for the best. A jerk of the rein sets him going; and, as often as not, he starts at a frantic gallop, kicking up the snow into the driver’s face until he is almost blinded, and careering right and left at his own sweet will until he is tired. There is no difficulty about keeping to the road, because there are no roads—only miles and miles of snow, and the reindeer knows pretty well which way to go, since the camping-places and habitations in these regions are limited.Imagine what it would be like to jump into a boat-like “pulk” all alone—for there is only room for one—twist the rein round your wrist, give it a flick, and so away over the waste of snow, watching the great antlers of the deer in front of you, and flinging yourself from side to side to prevent capsizing. And, if you do happen to upset, you must hang on to the rein like grim death and be dragged over the snow, otherwise the reindeer will either fly like the wind and be lost, or he may turn on you and attack you with his fore-hoofs.These are the animals which are called the tame reindeer, but their tameness only consists in the fact that they are kept in herds together, and watched by men and dogs. They graze wherever they choose, and the men and the dogs have to follow them. When they are wanted for driving, to be milked, or to be killed, the Lapp has to lasso them over the horns, from a distance of thirty or forty yards, for no reindeer is ever sufficiently tame to permit a man to walk up to him.The wealth of a Laplander depends on the number of reindeer which he possesses. They carry his baggage and draw his sleighs when encampments are moved; they provide him with milk and cheese, and, when killed, with excellent meat. Their skins keep him warm at night, and out of them are made boots, shoes, and leggings, as well as every kind of article of leather which the Lapp has a use for. Horns, hoofs, and bones all have their value, and not so long ago the women did all their sewing with needles and threads made out of reindeer’s bones and sinews. Moreover, after supplying their own wants, the herdsmen can sell the surplus meat and skins, and thus obtain the wherewithal to buy other necessaries or luxuries.Cows, horses, sheep, goats, or pigs would be out of place in Lapland, and would find nothing to eat. But the “camel of the Arctic Desert,” as the reindeer has been called, thrives in the cold without care or shelter, and subsists on the moss, which he obtains by scraping deep holes in the snow. Small wonder that he is a valuable beast to the Laplander, who, however, repays him only with blows and lashes.Farther south, on the Hardanger Fjeld andelsewhere, herds of tame reindeer have now been established by Norwegian companies as a new industry. Lapps are hired to look after them, and the meat is sold in great quantities in many parts of Europe, especially in Paris. A good trade is done also in the skins, for glove-making and other purposes. It is by no means difficult to have a look at one of these herds, and any visitor to Norway who finds himself within a day’s climb of the mountains whereon a herd is known to be grazing should do his utmost to see the reindeer. He will find them not, like the deer in Richmond Park, waiting to be looked at, but timid and restless, and ready to take flight at the slightest provocation. Only the Lapp herdsmen and their dogs are able to control these wild children of a wild land.Chapter XIWild Nature—BirdsWhat a place Norway must be for birds’-nesting! There, if one went at the right time, and did not mind roughing it, one might find eggs which one could never come across in England, although laid by birds which are called British. But the Norwegians protect a great many of their birds by law in the same way as we do, and if this had only been done a hundred years ago the Great Auk would not have disappeared for ever.Most of our British birds are found in Norway at some time of the year, and many of our rarer birds are almost common in Norway—golden eagles, snowy owls, ravens, ring-ouzels, and crested tits, for instance.As with us, there are resident birds and migratory birds. Nearly all the kinds of birds which come from the South in the summer months to nest in the British Isles also go farther North and nest in Norway. You will find swallows, martins, cuckoos, warblers, and others of our summer birds all nesting over there, and you will find some varieties of southern birds which do not come to England, but go straight up from Eastern or Central Europe to breed in the cool of the North. Amongst these may be mentioned the blue-throated warbler, ortolan bunting, Lapland bunting, shore lark, red-throated pipit, tree warbler, and many others.Then there are birds which are common enough in England in the winter, but which mostly go away to Norwegian breeding-grounds, such as geese, ducks, woodcock, and snipe; while bramblings, fieldfares, and redwings are birds of the North, and never nest in Great Britain. Besides these, there are a certain number of birds which have no claim to be termed British, and which are found in Norway all the year round—the nut-cracker, several kinds of woodpecker, the ryper (the game-bird of the country), and others. And, on the other hand, some of our common resident birds migrate from Norway in the winter.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 eatwhen 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 Grönfjeld, 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 wellas 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.”Bondhus Glacier, Hardanger FjordBondhus Glacier, Hardanger FjordPage63.“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 flutteredupwards, 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 proclaimedfuglekongen(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 ofbread 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 influencedthe 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 VIISome Fairy TalesNorwegian children are just as fond of fairy stories as are any other children, and they are lucky in having a great number, for that famous story-teller, Hans Christian Andersen, was a Dane, and as the Danish language is very like the Norwegian, his stories were probably known in Norway long before they were known in England. But the Norwegians have plenty of other stories of their own, and they love to sit by the fire of burning logs or round the stove in the long winter evenings and listen to them. Of course, they know all about people like Cinderella and Jack the Giant-Killer, but their favourite hero is called by the name of Ashpot, who is sometimes a kind of boy Cinderella and sometimes a Jack the Giant-Killer.The following are two stories which the little yellow-haired Norse children gloat over:Once upon a time there was a man who had been out cutting wood, and when he came home he found that he had left his coat behind, so he told his little daughter to go and fetch it. The child started off, but before she reached the wood darkness came on, and suddenly a great big hill-giant swooped down upon her.“Please, Mr. Giant,” said she, trembling all over, “don’t take me away to-night, as father wants his coat; but to-morrow night, if you will come when I go to thestabburto fetch the bread, I will go away with you quite quietly.”So the giant agreed, and the next night, when she went to fetch the bread, he came and carried her off. As soon as it was found that she was missing, her father sent her eldest brother to look for her, but he came back without finding her. The second brother was also sent, but with no better result. At last the father turned to his youngest son, who was the drudge of the house, and said: “Now, Ashpot, you go and see if you can find your sister.”So away went Ashpot, and no sooner had he reached the wood than he met a bear.“Friend bear,” said Ashpot, “will you help me?”“Willingly,” answered the bear. “Get up on my back.”And Ashpot mounted the bear’s back and rode off. Presently they met a wolf.“Friend wolf,” said Ashpot, “will you do some work for me ?”“Willingly,” answered the wolf.“Then jump up behind,” said Ashpot, and the three went on deeper into the wood.They next met a fox, and then a hare, both of whom were enlisted into Ashpot’s service, and, mounted on the back of the bear, were swiftly carried off to the giant’s abode.“Good-day, Mr. Giant!” said they.“Scratch my back!” roared the giant, who lay stretched in front of the fire warming himself.The hare immediately climbed up and began to scratch as desired; but the giant knocked him over, and down he fell on to the hearth-stone, breaking off his fore-legs, since which time all hares have had short fore-legs.The fox next clambered up to scratch the giant’s back, but he was served like the hare. Then the wolf’s turn came, but the giant said that he was no better at scratching than the others.“Youscratch me!” shouted the giant, turning impatiently to the bear.“All right,” answered Bruin; “I know all about scratching,” and he forthwith dug his claws into the giant’s back and ripped it into a thousand pieces.Then all the beasts danced on the dead body of the monster, and Ashpot recovered his sister and took her home, carrying off, at the same time, all the giant’s gold and silver. The bear and the wolf burst into the cattle-sheds and devoured all the cows and sheep, the fox feasted in the henroost, while the hare had the free run of the oatfield. So everyone was satisfied.The other story is also about Ashpot, whose two elder brothers still treated him very badly, and eventually turned him out of his home. Poor Ashpot wandered away up into the mountains, where he met a huge giant. At first he was terribly afraid, but after a little while he told the giant what had happened to him, and asked him if he could find a job for him.“You are just the very man I want,” said the giant. “Come along with me.”The first work to be done was to make a fire to brew some ale, so they went off together to the forest to cut firewood. The giant carried a club in place of an axe, and when they came to a large birch-tree he asked Ashpot whether he would like to club the tree down or climb up and hold the top of it. The boythought that the latter would suit him best, and he soon got up to the topmost branches and held on to them. But the giant gave the tree such a blow with his club as to knock it right out of the ground, sending Ashpot flying across the meadows into a marsh. Luckily he landed on soft ground, and was none the worse for his adventure; and they soon managed to get the tree home, when they set to work to make a fire.But the wood was green, and would not burn, so the giant began to blow. At the first puff Ashpot found himself flying up to the ceiling as if he had been a feather, but he managed to catch hold of a piece of birch-bark among the rafters, and on reaching the ground again he told the giant that he had been up to get something to make the fire burn.The fire was soon burning splendidly, and the giant commenced to brew the ale, drinking it off as fast as it was made. Ashpot watched him getting gradually drunk, and heard him mutter to himself, “To-night I will kill him,” so he began to think of a plan to outwit his master. When he went to bed he placed the giant’s cream-whisk between the sheets as a dummy, while he himself crept under the bedstead.In the middle of the night, just as he had expected, he heard the giant come into his room, and then there was a tremendous whack as the giant brought his club down on to the bed. Next morning the boy came out of his room as if nothing had happened, and his master was very much surprised to find him still alive.“Hullo!” said the giant. “Didn’t you feel anything in the night?”“I did feel something,” said Ashpot; “but I thought that it was only a sausage-peg that had fallen on the bed, so I went to sleep again.”The giant was more astonished than ever, and went off to consult his sister, who lived in a neighbouring mountain, and was about ten times his size. At length it was settled that the giantess should set her cooking-pot on the fire, and that Ashpot should be sent to see her, when she was to tip him into the caldron and boil him. In the course of the day the giant sent the boy off with a message to his sister, and when he reached the giantess’s dwelling he found her busy cooking. But he soon saw through her design, and he took out of his pocket a nut with a hole in it.“Look here,” he said, showing the nut to the ogress, “you think you can do everything. I will tell you one thing that you can’t do: you can’t make yourself so small as to be able to creep into the hole in this nut.”“Rubbish!” replied the giantess. “Of course I can!”And in a moment she became as small as a fly, and crept into the nut, whereupon Ashpot hurled it into the fire, and that was the end of the giantess.The boy was so delighted that he returned to his old tyrant the giant and told him what had happened to his sister. This set the big man thinking again as to how he was to rid himself of this sharp-witted little nuisance. He did not understand boys, and he was afraid of Ashpot’s tricks, so he offered him as much gold and silver as he could carry if he would go away and never return. Ashpot, however, replied that the amount he could carry would not be worth having,and that he could not think of going unless he got as much as the giant could carry.The giant, glad to get rid of him at any cost, agreed, and, loading himself with gold and silver and precious stones, he set out with the boy towards his home. When they reached the outskirts of the farms they saw a herd of cattle, and the giant began to tremble.“What sort of beasts are these?” he asked.“They are my father’s cows,” replied Ashpot, “and you had better put down your burden and run back to your mountain, or they may bite you.”The giant was only too happy to get away, so, depositing his load, which was as big as a small hill, he made off, and left the boy to carry his treasure home by himself.So enormous was the amount of the valuables that it was six years before Ashpot succeeded in removing everything from the field where the giant had set it down; but he and all his relations were rich people for the rest of their lives.
Norwegian children are just as fond of fairy stories as are any other children, and they are lucky in having a great number, for that famous story-teller, Hans Christian Andersen, was a Dane, and as the Danish language is very like the Norwegian, his stories were probably known in Norway long before they were known in England. But the Norwegians have plenty of other stories of their own, and they love to sit by the fire of burning logs or round the stove in the long winter evenings and listen to them. Of course, they know all about people like Cinderella and Jack the Giant-Killer, but their favourite hero is called by the name of Ashpot, who is sometimes a kind of boy Cinderella and sometimes a Jack the Giant-Killer.
The following are two stories which the little yellow-haired Norse children gloat over:
Once upon a time there was a man who had been out cutting wood, and when he came home he found that he had left his coat behind, so he told his little daughter to go and fetch it. The child started off, but before she reached the wood darkness came on, and suddenly a great big hill-giant swooped down upon her.
“Please, Mr. Giant,” said she, trembling all over, “don’t take me away to-night, as father wants his coat; but to-morrow night, if you will come when I go to thestabburto fetch the bread, I will go away with you quite quietly.”
So the giant agreed, and the next night, when she went to fetch the bread, he came and carried her off. As soon as it was found that she was missing, her father sent her eldest brother to look for her, but he came back without finding her. The second brother was also sent, but with no better result. At last the father turned to his youngest son, who was the drudge of the house, and said: “Now, Ashpot, you go and see if you can find your sister.”
So away went Ashpot, and no sooner had he reached the wood than he met a bear.
“Friend bear,” said Ashpot, “will you help me?”
“Willingly,” answered the bear. “Get up on my back.”
And Ashpot mounted the bear’s back and rode off. Presently they met a wolf.
“Friend wolf,” said Ashpot, “will you do some work for me ?”
“Willingly,” answered the wolf.
“Then jump up behind,” said Ashpot, and the three went on deeper into the wood.
They next met a fox, and then a hare, both of whom were enlisted into Ashpot’s service, and, mounted on the back of the bear, were swiftly carried off to the giant’s abode.
“Good-day, Mr. Giant!” said they.
“Scratch my back!” roared the giant, who lay stretched in front of the fire warming himself.
The hare immediately climbed up and began to scratch as desired; but the giant knocked him over, and down he fell on to the hearth-stone, breaking off his fore-legs, since which time all hares have had short fore-legs.
The fox next clambered up to scratch the giant’s back, but he was served like the hare. Then the wolf’s turn came, but the giant said that he was no better at scratching than the others.
“Youscratch me!” shouted the giant, turning impatiently to the bear.
“All right,” answered Bruin; “I know all about scratching,” and he forthwith dug his claws into the giant’s back and ripped it into a thousand pieces.
Then all the beasts danced on the dead body of the monster, and Ashpot recovered his sister and took her home, carrying off, at the same time, all the giant’s gold and silver. The bear and the wolf burst into the cattle-sheds and devoured all the cows and sheep, the fox feasted in the henroost, while the hare had the free run of the oatfield. So everyone was satisfied.
The other story is also about Ashpot, whose two elder brothers still treated him very badly, and eventually turned him out of his home. Poor Ashpot wandered away up into the mountains, where he met a huge giant. At first he was terribly afraid, but after a little while he told the giant what had happened to him, and asked him if he could find a job for him.
“You are just the very man I want,” said the giant. “Come along with me.”
The first work to be done was to make a fire to brew some ale, so they went off together to the forest to cut firewood. The giant carried a club in place of an axe, and when they came to a large birch-tree he asked Ashpot whether he would like to club the tree down or climb up and hold the top of it. The boythought that the latter would suit him best, and he soon got up to the topmost branches and held on to them. But the giant gave the tree such a blow with his club as to knock it right out of the ground, sending Ashpot flying across the meadows into a marsh. Luckily he landed on soft ground, and was none the worse for his adventure; and they soon managed to get the tree home, when they set to work to make a fire.
But the wood was green, and would not burn, so the giant began to blow. At the first puff Ashpot found himself flying up to the ceiling as if he had been a feather, but he managed to catch hold of a piece of birch-bark among the rafters, and on reaching the ground again he told the giant that he had been up to get something to make the fire burn.
The fire was soon burning splendidly, and the giant commenced to brew the ale, drinking it off as fast as it was made. Ashpot watched him getting gradually drunk, and heard him mutter to himself, “To-night I will kill him,” so he began to think of a plan to outwit his master. When he went to bed he placed the giant’s cream-whisk between the sheets as a dummy, while he himself crept under the bedstead.
In the middle of the night, just as he had expected, he heard the giant come into his room, and then there was a tremendous whack as the giant brought his club down on to the bed. Next morning the boy came out of his room as if nothing had happened, and his master was very much surprised to find him still alive.
“Hullo!” said the giant. “Didn’t you feel anything in the night?”
“I did feel something,” said Ashpot; “but I thought that it was only a sausage-peg that had fallen on the bed, so I went to sleep again.”
The giant was more astonished than ever, and went off to consult his sister, who lived in a neighbouring mountain, and was about ten times his size. At length it was settled that the giantess should set her cooking-pot on the fire, and that Ashpot should be sent to see her, when she was to tip him into the caldron and boil him. In the course of the day the giant sent the boy off with a message to his sister, and when he reached the giantess’s dwelling he found her busy cooking. But he soon saw through her design, and he took out of his pocket a nut with a hole in it.
“Look here,” he said, showing the nut to the ogress, “you think you can do everything. I will tell you one thing that you can’t do: you can’t make yourself so small as to be able to creep into the hole in this nut.”
“Rubbish!” replied the giantess. “Of course I can!”
And in a moment she became as small as a fly, and crept into the nut, whereupon Ashpot hurled it into the fire, and that was the end of the giantess.
The boy was so delighted that he returned to his old tyrant the giant and told him what had happened to his sister. This set the big man thinking again as to how he was to rid himself of this sharp-witted little nuisance. He did not understand boys, and he was afraid of Ashpot’s tricks, so he offered him as much gold and silver as he could carry if he would go away and never return. Ashpot, however, replied that the amount he could carry would not be worth having,and that he could not think of going unless he got as much as the giant could carry.
The giant, glad to get rid of him at any cost, agreed, and, loading himself with gold and silver and precious stones, he set out with the boy towards his home. When they reached the outskirts of the farms they saw a herd of cattle, and the giant began to tremble.
“What sort of beasts are these?” he asked.
“They are my father’s cows,” replied Ashpot, “and you had better put down your burden and run back to your mountain, or they may bite you.”
The giant was only too happy to get away, so, depositing his load, which was as big as a small hill, he made off, and left the boy to carry his treasure home by himself.
So enormous was the amount of the valuables that it was six years before Ashpot succeeded in removing everything from the field where the giant had set it down; but he and all his relations were rich people for the rest of their lives.
Chapter VIIIThe Hardanger FjordAll that is grand, all that is beautiful, will be found in the Hardanger—the “Smiling Hardanger,” as the Norwegians themselves call it; and even if an English visitor went nowhere else, he would have seen typical Norwegian scenery of every possible kind.The easiest way to go there is from Bergen, and most people bent on a tour in Norway make a start eitherfrom Christiania or from Bergen. Bergen itself claims to be the most beautiful town in the country, and it really is a lovely spot, with its old wooden houses all around the harbour, full of picturesque shipping, and with its amphitheatre of bold mountains rising upwards almost from the centre of the town. But Bergen has its drawbacks, and the principal one is that it rains every day, or nearly every day.To reach the Hardanger from Bergen, and to go from one end of the fjord to the other, you take a passage in one of the comfortable little local steamers, and you begin your journey early in the morning. It is a very pleasant way of travelling, as you sit on deck all day and enjoy the scenery, and only go down to the saloon at meal-times. If you do not wish to go all the way to the very end of the fjord, there are numbers of pretty little places where you can break your journey. But if you like you can travel throughout the day and finish up late at night at Odda, or at Vik-i-Eidfjord, each of which is at the head of a branch of the Hardanger Fjord.Let us take our tickets right through to Eidfjord, make a good long day of it, and see what there is to be seen. For some little time after leaving the harbour we see nothing of great interest, only a few graceful-looking barges in full sail, reminding us of the pictures of the old Viking ships, and flocks of seagulls fluttering and screaming round the stern of our boat. Then the steamer begins to pick its way through the scattered islands, some of which are mere barren granite rocks, others partially cultivated, and with neat little farmsteads lying snug in the valleys.So we go on for an hour or two, occasionally stopping off a small group of farms, to land, perhaps, a farmer returning from the Bergen market, or a girl coming home from her situation in the town. Presently we come alongside a pier under an overhanging cliff, and we see the name of the place written up on a board, just like the name of a railway-station. This is Godösund, a favourite holiday haunt of the Bergen people. It is not a town or even a village, but just a châlet-like hotel of two or three buildings, standing on the side of a fir-clad hill, in the midst of a fairyland of creeks and wooded islets—as pretty a spot as one could wish to see.Now we are nearing the Hardanger Fjord; we pass through the narrow straits known as the Löksund, and we enter the fjord. Glorious and ever-changing views open out before us, as hour after hour the steamer passes from one small station to another, dropping a mail-bag, and perhaps a passenger or two. We pass farms lying close to the shore, the wooden houses being in many cases painted red or white, and thus forming a brilliant contrast to the blue-black mountains and dark green forests which rise up behind them. We see every now and then a clean white wooden church, and, away up on the mountain-sides we can discern tiny specks, which, we are told, are the sæter dwellings.Sometimes the steamer is out in the middle of the fjord, which, in parts, is five miles or more in width, but at other times we find ourselves close in to a rocky precipice, and wondering how it will be possible to avoid grounding. Above us the mountain-side rises perpendicularly to a height of, it may be, 3,000 or4,000 feet; and, looking down into the clear water, we can see that it is ever so deep. As a matter of fact, the chart tells us that hereabouts it is a little more than 2,000 feet in depth.Soon we reach the bay in which is Rosendal, where one could spend a very pleasant week or so, with trout fishing to be had in the streams and lakes, and mountain walks up to the edge of the great Folgefond snowfield. The steamer calls for a few minutes, and then goes on up the beautiful little branch fjord known as the Mauranger, at the extremity of which lies Sundal.The scenery here is delightful, and especially so at the spot where the Bondhus Valley is seen stretching down to the fjord. Half-way up the valley a round-topped mountain appears to bar the way, and farther off a blue-grey glacier—the Bondhus Bræ—is seen falling from the white snowfield, and choking the head of the vale.Those who have the mind to do so can wander up to the glacier, sleep the night at a sæter, and on the following day hire a sleigh, and career for miles over the vast field of perpetual snow, right across the headland to Odda. And great is the joy of plunging suddenly, on a hot August day, into the depths of winter.But our steamer does not stay here long—only long enough to put some Norwegian passengers on shore, and take fresh ones on board. This occupies some time, however, for Norse people, and especially the ladies, refuse to be hurried. It is amusing to watch them starting on their travels. All their friends come to see them off, although it is quite possible that the traveller is only going to the next station on the fjord,not a dozen miles away. Each friend bears some small package—a pot of cranberry jam, a basket of apples or cherries, a bag of cakes, or something of that kind. The gaily-painted wooden trunks and thetinersare stowed away on board; and then the “farvels” commence, with kisses and handshakes, and pats on the back, and many last words until the bell rings for the steamer’s departure, when a lady passenger suddenly discovers that she has left something behind. The wildest confusion follows, and away run all the friends to fetch it from the house, returning just in time. Then the good-byes begin again, and as the steamer finally departs, everyone shouts, “Farvel! farvel! farvel!” frequently and rapidly; hats are raised, and handkerchiefs continue waving until the boat can no longer be seen.Godösund, Hardanger FjordGodösund, Hardanger FjordPage39.Returning down the Mauranger Fjord we steam out across the main fjord, and early in the afternoon call at several small places on the northern shore—Bakke, Vikingnæs, Nordheimsund—each with its spruce hotel, enticing the traveller to loiter and explore the country in the neighbourhood. A little later we enter the Fiksensund, a narrow branch fjord, and a wonder of wonders. For a distance of seven miles it wends its way amongst the mountains. In places the precipitous hillsides are within a hundred yards of each other, and in no part is this extraordinary fjord-arm a third of a mile in width. For thousands of feet sheer out of the water rise the bold walls of granite, with here and there a ledge thickly wooded with fir and birch. It looks as if the mountains had been torn asunder to admit the sea, and local legends say that a spiteful giantess did this and many other nasty things in the giant age. Half-wayup the fjord the steamer fires a gun, so that the passengers may hear the echo, and the sound comes back time after time from every nook and cranny. At the end is Botnen, with a road running away north to other farms, and eventually to the railway from Bergen to Vossevangen.Again we return to the main fjord, and before long enter the Gravensfjord, wherein lies Eide, a kind of junction of the steamer-routes, and a very touristy place, as there is a good driving-road to Voss. The Bergen steamer continues its way up the Sörfjord to Odda, which is reached late at night; but we, who are bound for Eidfjord, change into a small branch steamer, and are soon rounding a mighty headland, and, if there is any wind, getting a tossing for a few minutes, the fjord just here being wide and open. The head of a seal may occasionally be seen bobbing up and down, and large flocks of duck are always swimming about at a respectful distance from the steamer. And what a view we have across the expanse of water! The never-ending mountains stretch away one behind the other, to be crowned in the distance by the dazzling white snowfield, lighted up by the fast sinking sun.And when the sun goes down the scenery, as we steam on, changes each moment. In the twilight the granite cliffs stand out black and uninviting, and the country looks cold and grey. It may be that we are tired of the long journey, for with the growing darkness comes the feeling that something to eat and bed would be pleasant things. Then the steamer’s whistle makes us spring to our feet, and, peering ahead, we see lights on the Vik jetty and in the hotel close by. In afew minutes we are in Næsheim’s comfortable dining-room, enjoying our well-deserved supper after a day of days on Norway’s most glorious fjord.
All that is grand, all that is beautiful, will be found in the Hardanger—the “Smiling Hardanger,” as the Norwegians themselves call it; and even if an English visitor went nowhere else, he would have seen typical Norwegian scenery of every possible kind.
The easiest way to go there is from Bergen, and most people bent on a tour in Norway make a start eitherfrom Christiania or from Bergen. Bergen itself claims to be the most beautiful town in the country, and it really is a lovely spot, with its old wooden houses all around the harbour, full of picturesque shipping, and with its amphitheatre of bold mountains rising upwards almost from the centre of the town. But Bergen has its drawbacks, and the principal one is that it rains every day, or nearly every day.
To reach the Hardanger from Bergen, and to go from one end of the fjord to the other, you take a passage in one of the comfortable little local steamers, and you begin your journey early in the morning. It is a very pleasant way of travelling, as you sit on deck all day and enjoy the scenery, and only go down to the saloon at meal-times. If you do not wish to go all the way to the very end of the fjord, there are numbers of pretty little places where you can break your journey. But if you like you can travel throughout the day and finish up late at night at Odda, or at Vik-i-Eidfjord, each of which is at the head of a branch of the Hardanger Fjord.
Let us take our tickets right through to Eidfjord, make a good long day of it, and see what there is to be seen. For some little time after leaving the harbour we see nothing of great interest, only a few graceful-looking barges in full sail, reminding us of the pictures of the old Viking ships, and flocks of seagulls fluttering and screaming round the stern of our boat. Then the steamer begins to pick its way through the scattered islands, some of which are mere barren granite rocks, others partially cultivated, and with neat little farmsteads lying snug in the valleys.
So we go on for an hour or two, occasionally stopping off a small group of farms, to land, perhaps, a farmer returning from the Bergen market, or a girl coming home from her situation in the town. Presently we come alongside a pier under an overhanging cliff, and we see the name of the place written up on a board, just like the name of a railway-station. This is Godösund, a favourite holiday haunt of the Bergen people. It is not a town or even a village, but just a châlet-like hotel of two or three buildings, standing on the side of a fir-clad hill, in the midst of a fairyland of creeks and wooded islets—as pretty a spot as one could wish to see.
Now we are nearing the Hardanger Fjord; we pass through the narrow straits known as the Löksund, and we enter the fjord. Glorious and ever-changing views open out before us, as hour after hour the steamer passes from one small station to another, dropping a mail-bag, and perhaps a passenger or two. We pass farms lying close to the shore, the wooden houses being in many cases painted red or white, and thus forming a brilliant contrast to the blue-black mountains and dark green forests which rise up behind them. We see every now and then a clean white wooden church, and, away up on the mountain-sides we can discern tiny specks, which, we are told, are the sæter dwellings.
Sometimes the steamer is out in the middle of the fjord, which, in parts, is five miles or more in width, but at other times we find ourselves close in to a rocky precipice, and wondering how it will be possible to avoid grounding. Above us the mountain-side rises perpendicularly to a height of, it may be, 3,000 or4,000 feet; and, looking down into the clear water, we can see that it is ever so deep. As a matter of fact, the chart tells us that hereabouts it is a little more than 2,000 feet in depth.
Soon we reach the bay in which is Rosendal, where one could spend a very pleasant week or so, with trout fishing to be had in the streams and lakes, and mountain walks up to the edge of the great Folgefond snowfield. The steamer calls for a few minutes, and then goes on up the beautiful little branch fjord known as the Mauranger, at the extremity of which lies Sundal.
The scenery here is delightful, and especially so at the spot where the Bondhus Valley is seen stretching down to the fjord. Half-way up the valley a round-topped mountain appears to bar the way, and farther off a blue-grey glacier—the Bondhus Bræ—is seen falling from the white snowfield, and choking the head of the vale.
Those who have the mind to do so can wander up to the glacier, sleep the night at a sæter, and on the following day hire a sleigh, and career for miles over the vast field of perpetual snow, right across the headland to Odda. And great is the joy of plunging suddenly, on a hot August day, into the depths of winter.
But our steamer does not stay here long—only long enough to put some Norwegian passengers on shore, and take fresh ones on board. This occupies some time, however, for Norse people, and especially the ladies, refuse to be hurried. It is amusing to watch them starting on their travels. All their friends come to see them off, although it is quite possible that the traveller is only going to the next station on the fjord,not a dozen miles away. Each friend bears some small package—a pot of cranberry jam, a basket of apples or cherries, a bag of cakes, or something of that kind. The gaily-painted wooden trunks and thetinersare stowed away on board; and then the “farvels” commence, with kisses and handshakes, and pats on the back, and many last words until the bell rings for the steamer’s departure, when a lady passenger suddenly discovers that she has left something behind. The wildest confusion follows, and away run all the friends to fetch it from the house, returning just in time. Then the good-byes begin again, and as the steamer finally departs, everyone shouts, “Farvel! farvel! farvel!” frequently and rapidly; hats are raised, and handkerchiefs continue waving until the boat can no longer be seen.
Godösund, Hardanger FjordGodösund, Hardanger FjordPage39.
Godösund, Hardanger Fjord
Page39.
Returning down the Mauranger Fjord we steam out across the main fjord, and early in the afternoon call at several small places on the northern shore—Bakke, Vikingnæs, Nordheimsund—each with its spruce hotel, enticing the traveller to loiter and explore the country in the neighbourhood. A little later we enter the Fiksensund, a narrow branch fjord, and a wonder of wonders. For a distance of seven miles it wends its way amongst the mountains. In places the precipitous hillsides are within a hundred yards of each other, and in no part is this extraordinary fjord-arm a third of a mile in width. For thousands of feet sheer out of the water rise the bold walls of granite, with here and there a ledge thickly wooded with fir and birch. It looks as if the mountains had been torn asunder to admit the sea, and local legends say that a spiteful giantess did this and many other nasty things in the giant age. Half-wayup the fjord the steamer fires a gun, so that the passengers may hear the echo, and the sound comes back time after time from every nook and cranny. At the end is Botnen, with a road running away north to other farms, and eventually to the railway from Bergen to Vossevangen.
Again we return to the main fjord, and before long enter the Gravensfjord, wherein lies Eide, a kind of junction of the steamer-routes, and a very touristy place, as there is a good driving-road to Voss. The Bergen steamer continues its way up the Sörfjord to Odda, which is reached late at night; but we, who are bound for Eidfjord, change into a small branch steamer, and are soon rounding a mighty headland, and, if there is any wind, getting a tossing for a few minutes, the fjord just here being wide and open. The head of a seal may occasionally be seen bobbing up and down, and large flocks of duck are always swimming about at a respectful distance from the steamer. And what a view we have across the expanse of water! The never-ending mountains stretch away one behind the other, to be crowned in the distance by the dazzling white snowfield, lighted up by the fast sinking sun.
And when the sun goes down the scenery, as we steam on, changes each moment. In the twilight the granite cliffs stand out black and uninviting, and the country looks cold and grey. It may be that we are tired of the long journey, for with the growing darkness comes the feeling that something to eat and bed would be pleasant things. Then the steamer’s whistle makes us spring to our feet, and, peering ahead, we see lights on the Vik jetty and in the hotel close by. In afew minutes we are in Næsheim’s comfortable dining-room, enjoying our well-deserved supper after a day of days on Norway’s most glorious fjord.
Chapter IXA Glimpse of the Fjelds“Fjeld-weather” is the Norwegian term for fine, warm, bright days. It implies that the weather is suitable for a tour on the mountains. But, alas! it is not the weather that is always encountered there, for even in the summer the climate of the high plateau is ever varying, and though there may be a long spell of fine, hot weather, with a glorious crisp air, yet at any moment a change of the wind may bring a week of soaking rain, sleet, possibly snow, and a fall of temperature by twenty degrees. That is no time for the fjelds, and the traveller is better off in a fjordside hotel.Given fine weather, there is no more splendid touring ground than the highlands of Norway, where, at a height of anything up to 4,000 or 5,000 feet above the sea, stretch thousands of square miles of wild and uninhabited moorland, cut up with numerous large lakes, and clothed only with a dwarf vegetation. Such parts usually lie off the beaten track, and to reach them means an expedition—heavy, uphill walking for two or three days, with the baggage carried on the backs of ponies.If you were going to undertake an expedition to these high fjelds, you would probably make a startfrom the lowlands by following some well-worn track leading to a sæter. In nine cases out of ten the track will be running by the side of a river, at first wide and flowing lazily through the valley, but soon narrowing, until its upper waters become a rushing mountain torrent, swishing between mighty boulders. After a while you find that the path gradually begins to ascend by zigzags up the mountain-side, and the scenery, whenever you pause to look down, is magnificent. In time you reach the upland pastures, with here and there a sæter-dwelling, and this is the end of the first stage of your journey, for you probably will have climbed some 2,000 feet and walked a dozen miles or more. Thus you will be glad enough to accept the hospitality offered to you by the simple peasants.All these sæter-huts are much alike, though, of course, they vary in size and in the way in which they are fitted up; but as they are only occupied during the summer months, luxurious fittings are not considered a necessity. The outer walls are constructed of fir-trunks, let into one another at the corners on the log-hut principle, and the interior is lined with boarding. In some parts, however, where timber is scarce the buildings are of stone.The roof consists of rough planks, on which is placed a layer of birch-bark to fill in the cracks; and on the top, again, are laid sods of earth to a thickness of about a foot. Grass and weeds soon cover the roof, binding it together and keeping the rain out.The door opens into a dark hall or chamber, which serves as a receptacle for rubbish of all kinds—fishing-nets, tools, skins, empty milk-pans, and the like; andin the corner is a roughly-built fireplace for boiling the milk and for cooking. On one side of this hall is the door into the sole living apartment, which possesses a window at one end, and against one of the side walls a couple of bunks, wherein three or four dairymaids sleep.Sometimes there is a separate room, or even a detached hut, for the dairy work; but there is generally only the one room, the milk being set in large, shallow wooden vessels on a number of shelves fixed against one of the walls. Everything is scrupulously clean, and the cattle women are working hard all the long daylight hours. Periodically a man from the farm in the lowlands comes up to the sæter with a couple of ponies and takes down butter and cheese, and such visits are the only excitement in sæter-life.If you have time to linger here for a day or two you will be made welcome, and you will find plenty to interest you. The views down into the deep valleys and away to the fjords in the distance are always delightful, and there may be a stream with pools holding trout worth trying for. The tiny rivulets which trickle down from the hills are lined with ferns and forget-me nots, and elsewhere may be seen flowers of every hue—red Alpine catchfly, blue meadow cranesbill, hawksweed, wild radis, and a score of other pretty things.But the greatest joy of all is the sight of a wide marsh covered with the deliciousmultebær, whose luscious, yellow fruit and gold-red leaves brighten the country-side. This is the cloudberry, found in Scotland and in the North of England, and to come on a stretch of this fruit after a long, hot walk is a thing worth living for.Besides this best of all Norse wild fruits, the fjelds produce many excellent berries, such as crowberries, whortleberries, marsh whortleberries, bearberries, dewberries, cranberries, and others. The children of the country parts all over Norway spend much of their time in feasting on these little fruits, and during the summer and autumn months their hands and faces are generally well stained with the dark juice.Upwards, beyond these pleasant pastures, when you have left behind the last sæter-shanty and the last thicket of birches, you reach a world where, except for the scattered Tourist Club huts and their summer caretakers, you cannot count on coming across either dwelling or human being.Wandering far afield, you may meet a couple of Lapps with their herd of reindeer, and down by one of the tarns you may chance on a rough stone shelter, inhabited for the time being by two Norwegian fishermen, whose nets are laid in the mountain lake.All over this lofty wilderness the snow lies deep for several months of the year, but as soon as it begins to thaw it disappears rapidly, when, as in Switzerland, Nature’s garden immediately blossoms forth in all its glory. It must be confessed, however, that the carpet of Alpine flowers on the Norwegian high-fjelds cannot compare with that of Switzerland. On the great mountain plateau of Norway everything gives way to the lichen-like reindeer moss, and the flowers are merely in patches, or growing in masses only in those swampy parts where the moss does not thrive.The fjelds furnish a recreation-ground for the Norwegian townsman. There he can lead the life that heloves best, and one week of the wilds will set him up for the remainder of the year. Even though he cares nothing for shooting or fishing, the sense of freedom as he does his daily tramp delights his soul. And his wife or his sister as often as not will accompany him, for the Norwegian ladies are brave walkers, and know how to rough it.But the majority of Norsemen are good sportsmen and good fishermen, and in most seasons there are plenty of fjeld-ryper to be shot and good hauls of trout to be made in the mountain lakes and connecting streams.But what is the country like up here on the very summit of everything? It is called a plateau; but that does not mean that it is absolutely level, for, as a matter of fact, there is no part of it level enough to be made into a football ground. It is all up and down, and every here and there are low hills, with occasionally great prominent, rounded mountain-tops, rising to a height of 500 or 600 feet above the plateau. Then there are chains of lakes, often several miles in length, acres of swampy ground in every direction, shallow ravines filled with a jumble of rocks and boulders, and constant sand mounds, partly overgrown with grass and dwarf juniper. And up here are the snowfields, about which we shall have more to say presently.It is all weird and wild and wonderful, and if there be no wind the silence is intense, and only broken by the bark of an Arctic fox from some rocky hillside or by the plaintive call of a golden plover.Why, it may be asked, should anyone wish to go to such a desolate place? Only to shoot or to fish, togather in a store of the purest air in the world, or perhaps to enjoy a period of calm and quiet solitude—world-forgetting, by the world forgot.A Sæter, Vetle FjordA Sæter, Vetle FjordPage44.
“Fjeld-weather” is the Norwegian term for fine, warm, bright days. It implies that the weather is suitable for a tour on the mountains. But, alas! it is not the weather that is always encountered there, for even in the summer the climate of the high plateau is ever varying, and though there may be a long spell of fine, hot weather, with a glorious crisp air, yet at any moment a change of the wind may bring a week of soaking rain, sleet, possibly snow, and a fall of temperature by twenty degrees. That is no time for the fjelds, and the traveller is better off in a fjordside hotel.
Given fine weather, there is no more splendid touring ground than the highlands of Norway, where, at a height of anything up to 4,000 or 5,000 feet above the sea, stretch thousands of square miles of wild and uninhabited moorland, cut up with numerous large lakes, and clothed only with a dwarf vegetation. Such parts usually lie off the beaten track, and to reach them means an expedition—heavy, uphill walking for two or three days, with the baggage carried on the backs of ponies.
If you were going to undertake an expedition to these high fjelds, you would probably make a startfrom the lowlands by following some well-worn track leading to a sæter. In nine cases out of ten the track will be running by the side of a river, at first wide and flowing lazily through the valley, but soon narrowing, until its upper waters become a rushing mountain torrent, swishing between mighty boulders. After a while you find that the path gradually begins to ascend by zigzags up the mountain-side, and the scenery, whenever you pause to look down, is magnificent. In time you reach the upland pastures, with here and there a sæter-dwelling, and this is the end of the first stage of your journey, for you probably will have climbed some 2,000 feet and walked a dozen miles or more. Thus you will be glad enough to accept the hospitality offered to you by the simple peasants.
All these sæter-huts are much alike, though, of course, they vary in size and in the way in which they are fitted up; but as they are only occupied during the summer months, luxurious fittings are not considered a necessity. The outer walls are constructed of fir-trunks, let into one another at the corners on the log-hut principle, and the interior is lined with boarding. In some parts, however, where timber is scarce the buildings are of stone.
The roof consists of rough planks, on which is placed a layer of birch-bark to fill in the cracks; and on the top, again, are laid sods of earth to a thickness of about a foot. Grass and weeds soon cover the roof, binding it together and keeping the rain out.
The door opens into a dark hall or chamber, which serves as a receptacle for rubbish of all kinds—fishing-nets, tools, skins, empty milk-pans, and the like; andin the corner is a roughly-built fireplace for boiling the milk and for cooking. On one side of this hall is the door into the sole living apartment, which possesses a window at one end, and against one of the side walls a couple of bunks, wherein three or four dairymaids sleep.
Sometimes there is a separate room, or even a detached hut, for the dairy work; but there is generally only the one room, the milk being set in large, shallow wooden vessels on a number of shelves fixed against one of the walls. Everything is scrupulously clean, and the cattle women are working hard all the long daylight hours. Periodically a man from the farm in the lowlands comes up to the sæter with a couple of ponies and takes down butter and cheese, and such visits are the only excitement in sæter-life.
If you have time to linger here for a day or two you will be made welcome, and you will find plenty to interest you. The views down into the deep valleys and away to the fjords in the distance are always delightful, and there may be a stream with pools holding trout worth trying for. The tiny rivulets which trickle down from the hills are lined with ferns and forget-me nots, and elsewhere may be seen flowers of every hue—red Alpine catchfly, blue meadow cranesbill, hawksweed, wild radis, and a score of other pretty things.
But the greatest joy of all is the sight of a wide marsh covered with the deliciousmultebær, whose luscious, yellow fruit and gold-red leaves brighten the country-side. This is the cloudberry, found in Scotland and in the North of England, and to come on a stretch of this fruit after a long, hot walk is a thing worth living for.Besides this best of all Norse wild fruits, the fjelds produce many excellent berries, such as crowberries, whortleberries, marsh whortleberries, bearberries, dewberries, cranberries, and others. The children of the country parts all over Norway spend much of their time in feasting on these little fruits, and during the summer and autumn months their hands and faces are generally well stained with the dark juice.
Upwards, beyond these pleasant pastures, when you have left behind the last sæter-shanty and the last thicket of birches, you reach a world where, except for the scattered Tourist Club huts and their summer caretakers, you cannot count on coming across either dwelling or human being.
Wandering far afield, you may meet a couple of Lapps with their herd of reindeer, and down by one of the tarns you may chance on a rough stone shelter, inhabited for the time being by two Norwegian fishermen, whose nets are laid in the mountain lake.
All over this lofty wilderness the snow lies deep for several months of the year, but as soon as it begins to thaw it disappears rapidly, when, as in Switzerland, Nature’s garden immediately blossoms forth in all its glory. It must be confessed, however, that the carpet of Alpine flowers on the Norwegian high-fjelds cannot compare with that of Switzerland. On the great mountain plateau of Norway everything gives way to the lichen-like reindeer moss, and the flowers are merely in patches, or growing in masses only in those swampy parts where the moss does not thrive.
The fjelds furnish a recreation-ground for the Norwegian townsman. There he can lead the life that heloves best, and one week of the wilds will set him up for the remainder of the year. Even though he cares nothing for shooting or fishing, the sense of freedom as he does his daily tramp delights his soul. And his wife or his sister as often as not will accompany him, for the Norwegian ladies are brave walkers, and know how to rough it.
But the majority of Norsemen are good sportsmen and good fishermen, and in most seasons there are plenty of fjeld-ryper to be shot and good hauls of trout to be made in the mountain lakes and connecting streams.
But what is the country like up here on the very summit of everything? It is called a plateau; but that does not mean that it is absolutely level, for, as a matter of fact, there is no part of it level enough to be made into a football ground. It is all up and down, and every here and there are low hills, with occasionally great prominent, rounded mountain-tops, rising to a height of 500 or 600 feet above the plateau. Then there are chains of lakes, often several miles in length, acres of swampy ground in every direction, shallow ravines filled with a jumble of rocks and boulders, and constant sand mounds, partly overgrown with grass and dwarf juniper. And up here are the snowfields, about which we shall have more to say presently.
It is all weird and wild and wonderful, and if there be no wind the silence is intense, and only broken by the bark of an Arctic fox from some rocky hillside or by the plaintive call of a golden plover.
Why, it may be asked, should anyone wish to go to such a desolate place? Only to shoot or to fish, togather in a store of the purest air in the world, or perhaps to enjoy a period of calm and quiet solitude—world-forgetting, by the world forgot.
A Sæter, Vetle FjordA Sæter, Vetle FjordPage44.
A Sæter, Vetle Fjord
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Chapter XWild Nature—BeastsIn a country like Norway, with its vast forests and waste moorlands, it is only natural to find a considerable variety of animals and birds. Some of these are peculiar to Scandinavia. Some, though only occasionally met with in the British Isles, are not rare in Norway; whilst others (more especially among the birds) are equally common in both countries.There was a time when the people of England lived in a state of fear and dread of the ravages of wolves and bears, and the Norwegians of the country districts even now have to guard their flocks and herds from these destroyers. Except in the forest tracts of the Far North, however, bears are not numerous, but in some parts, even in the South, they are sufficiently so to be a nuisance, and are ruthlessly hunted down by the farmers. As far as wolves are concerned civilization is, fortunately, driving them farther afield each year, and only in the most out-of-the-way parts are they ever encountered nowadays. Stories of packs of hungry wolves following in the wake of a sleigh are still told to the children in Norway, but they relate to bygone times—half a century or more ago, and such wild excitements no longer enter into the Norsemen’s lives.Yet less ferocious animals give the people troubleenough, and amongst these may be mentioned the lynx and the wolverine, or glutton, each of which will make his supper off a sheep or a goat if he gets the chance. Of the two the lynx is perhaps the worse poacher, and his proverbial sharpness renders him difficult to catch. Not so the glutton, who, if he succeeds in crawling through a hole in the fence of a sheepfold, stuffs himself so full that he cannot get out again. I think that most of us would rather be called lynx-eyed than gluttonous, and certainly a lynx is a much handsomer beast than a glutton.With the exception of the rabbit, all our English animals are found in Norway—the badger, fox, hare, otter, squirrel, hedgehog, polecat, stoat, and the rest of them. But besides these there are little Arctic foxes and Arctic hares, with bluish-grey coats in the summer and snowy-white ones in the winter. This change of colour is a provision of Nature, rendering these particular animals, and some birds also, almost invisible among the snows. The ermine is another instance of this. In summer he is just an ugly little brown stoat; but in winter he comes out in pure white, with a jet-black tip to his tail, a skin worth a lot of money.Of all these small Norwegian animals perhaps the most interesting is the lemming, who, for some reason best known to himself, does not trouble to put on a white coat in the winter, but keeps to his stripy jacket all the year round. He lives everywhere—up on the mountains and down in the valleys, and is hardly as large as an ordinary rat; but woe betide the dog that brings him to bay, for if he finds his road to escape barred, he will sit up and fight to the death, and heknows how to bite. Yet he would much rather run away if he could, as in ordinary life he is quite peacefully inclined, and feeds on nothing more than grass and herbs and roots.But there is a peculiarity about the lemming which makes the country-folk of Norway more afraid of him than of any other animal. In most years you may wander about the country for weeks and never see a lemming, but occasionally there comes what is called a “lemming-year,” when more young lemmings are born than usual, and then the trouble begins. They eat up everything round about their homes, and they begin to wander in search of food in packs of thousands, like swarms of locusts. The farmers try to destroy them, but they soon give up the attempt, as for days and days the lemmings come on in great waves, eating up the grass and the crops wherever they pass. Except the sea, nothing will stop them when once they have made a start; they come down the mountain-sides, swim the rivers and streams, rush through the forests, and, eating as they go, devastate the farm-lands. They do not wander hither and thither, but keep to the same direction straight ahead, until they eventually reach the sea. Whether they think that it is only another river to be crossed, or whether they think that they have done enough damage for one lifetime, nobody knows; but into the sea they all plunge madly, and, of course, are soon drowned.This, however, does not end the nuisance, for thousands of them die as they sweep over the country, leaving their dead bodies to poison the water, and thus making the people ill with what they term “lemmingfever.” So the pretty little lemmings are on occasions more to be dreaded than are even bears and wolves, but fortunately “lemming-years” do not come round very often, and the whole country is not visited by the pest at the same time. They made their last big raid in several districts in 1902, and they may come swarming down from the mountains again any summer.I must now say something about the wild animals which are helpful to the people in that they provide them with food and bring money to their pockets. Foxes and other fur-bearing animals will always fetch good prices. There are also the hares, especially the white ones, which are shot and snared in winter-time in great quantities, and sold all over Europe. You may see them hanging up in the poulterers’ shops in London. Then there is that huge beast, the elk, almost as big as a small horse, who roams about the forests like his Canadian brother, the moose, and is hunted and shot for his flesh, skin, and massive flat horns. Red deer there are also in some parts of Norway; but the animal of greatest interest is undoubtedly the reindeer.Up on the great mountain plateaux there are still plenty of wild reindeer roaming about in large herds, and numbers of them are shot every autumn by the farmers, who sell the skins, and dry the meat to be eaten in the winter months. It is, however, the so-called tame reindeer which are so invaluable to the people of the North. Without them it would be difficult, if not impossible, for the Laplanders to exist, and without them thousands of Norwegians would be poor indeed.It is a popular idea that, in the winter, reindeer drawthe sleighs all over Norway. As a matter of fact, it is only in the extreme North, among the Lapps, that reindeer are employed for this kind of work; and very few Europeans ever have the opportunity of enjoying a drive in a reindeer “pulk,” as the queer sleigh is called. That the experience is most exhilarating and exciting is certain. In the first place, there is only one trace, connecting a kind of shoulder harness with the forepart of the sleigh; again, there is only one rein coming from a collar round the deer’s neck, and consequently driving a reindeer as we drive a horse is, of course, out of the question. All that it is possible to do is to head him in the required direction, and hope for the best. A jerk of the rein sets him going; and, as often as not, he starts at a frantic gallop, kicking up the snow into the driver’s face until he is almost blinded, and careering right and left at his own sweet will until he is tired. There is no difficulty about keeping to the road, because there are no roads—only miles and miles of snow, and the reindeer knows pretty well which way to go, since the camping-places and habitations in these regions are limited.Imagine what it would be like to jump into a boat-like “pulk” all alone—for there is only room for one—twist the rein round your wrist, give it a flick, and so away over the waste of snow, watching the great antlers of the deer in front of you, and flinging yourself from side to side to prevent capsizing. And, if you do happen to upset, you must hang on to the rein like grim death and be dragged over the snow, otherwise the reindeer will either fly like the wind and be lost, or he may turn on you and attack you with his fore-hoofs.These are the animals which are called the tame reindeer, but their tameness only consists in the fact that they are kept in herds together, and watched by men and dogs. They graze wherever they choose, and the men and the dogs have to follow them. When they are wanted for driving, to be milked, or to be killed, the Lapp has to lasso them over the horns, from a distance of thirty or forty yards, for no reindeer is ever sufficiently tame to permit a man to walk up to him.The wealth of a Laplander depends on the number of reindeer which he possesses. They carry his baggage and draw his sleighs when encampments are moved; they provide him with milk and cheese, and, when killed, with excellent meat. Their skins keep him warm at night, and out of them are made boots, shoes, and leggings, as well as every kind of article of leather which the Lapp has a use for. Horns, hoofs, and bones all have their value, and not so long ago the women did all their sewing with needles and threads made out of reindeer’s bones and sinews. Moreover, after supplying their own wants, the herdsmen can sell the surplus meat and skins, and thus obtain the wherewithal to buy other necessaries or luxuries.Cows, horses, sheep, goats, or pigs would be out of place in Lapland, and would find nothing to eat. But the “camel of the Arctic Desert,” as the reindeer has been called, thrives in the cold without care or shelter, and subsists on the moss, which he obtains by scraping deep holes in the snow. Small wonder that he is a valuable beast to the Laplander, who, however, repays him only with blows and lashes.Farther south, on the Hardanger Fjeld andelsewhere, herds of tame reindeer have now been established by Norwegian companies as a new industry. Lapps are hired to look after them, and the meat is sold in great quantities in many parts of Europe, especially in Paris. A good trade is done also in the skins, for glove-making and other purposes. It is by no means difficult to have a look at one of these herds, and any visitor to Norway who finds himself within a day’s climb of the mountains whereon a herd is known to be grazing should do his utmost to see the reindeer. He will find them not, like the deer in Richmond Park, waiting to be looked at, but timid and restless, and ready to take flight at the slightest provocation. Only the Lapp herdsmen and their dogs are able to control these wild children of a wild land.
In a country like Norway, with its vast forests and waste moorlands, it is only natural to find a considerable variety of animals and birds. Some of these are peculiar to Scandinavia. Some, though only occasionally met with in the British Isles, are not rare in Norway; whilst others (more especially among the birds) are equally common in both countries.
There was a time when the people of England lived in a state of fear and dread of the ravages of wolves and bears, and the Norwegians of the country districts even now have to guard their flocks and herds from these destroyers. Except in the forest tracts of the Far North, however, bears are not numerous, but in some parts, even in the South, they are sufficiently so to be a nuisance, and are ruthlessly hunted down by the farmers. As far as wolves are concerned civilization is, fortunately, driving them farther afield each year, and only in the most out-of-the-way parts are they ever encountered nowadays. Stories of packs of hungry wolves following in the wake of a sleigh are still told to the children in Norway, but they relate to bygone times—half a century or more ago, and such wild excitements no longer enter into the Norsemen’s lives.
Yet less ferocious animals give the people troubleenough, and amongst these may be mentioned the lynx and the wolverine, or glutton, each of which will make his supper off a sheep or a goat if he gets the chance. Of the two the lynx is perhaps the worse poacher, and his proverbial sharpness renders him difficult to catch. Not so the glutton, who, if he succeeds in crawling through a hole in the fence of a sheepfold, stuffs himself so full that he cannot get out again. I think that most of us would rather be called lynx-eyed than gluttonous, and certainly a lynx is a much handsomer beast than a glutton.
With the exception of the rabbit, all our English animals are found in Norway—the badger, fox, hare, otter, squirrel, hedgehog, polecat, stoat, and the rest of them. But besides these there are little Arctic foxes and Arctic hares, with bluish-grey coats in the summer and snowy-white ones in the winter. This change of colour is a provision of Nature, rendering these particular animals, and some birds also, almost invisible among the snows. The ermine is another instance of this. In summer he is just an ugly little brown stoat; but in winter he comes out in pure white, with a jet-black tip to his tail, a skin worth a lot of money.
Of all these small Norwegian animals perhaps the most interesting is the lemming, who, for some reason best known to himself, does not trouble to put on a white coat in the winter, but keeps to his stripy jacket all the year round. He lives everywhere—up on the mountains and down in the valleys, and is hardly as large as an ordinary rat; but woe betide the dog that brings him to bay, for if he finds his road to escape barred, he will sit up and fight to the death, and heknows how to bite. Yet he would much rather run away if he could, as in ordinary life he is quite peacefully inclined, and feeds on nothing more than grass and herbs and roots.
But there is a peculiarity about the lemming which makes the country-folk of Norway more afraid of him than of any other animal. In most years you may wander about the country for weeks and never see a lemming, but occasionally there comes what is called a “lemming-year,” when more young lemmings are born than usual, and then the trouble begins. They eat up everything round about their homes, and they begin to wander in search of food in packs of thousands, like swarms of locusts. The farmers try to destroy them, but they soon give up the attempt, as for days and days the lemmings come on in great waves, eating up the grass and the crops wherever they pass. Except the sea, nothing will stop them when once they have made a start; they come down the mountain-sides, swim the rivers and streams, rush through the forests, and, eating as they go, devastate the farm-lands. They do not wander hither and thither, but keep to the same direction straight ahead, until they eventually reach the sea. Whether they think that it is only another river to be crossed, or whether they think that they have done enough damage for one lifetime, nobody knows; but into the sea they all plunge madly, and, of course, are soon drowned.
This, however, does not end the nuisance, for thousands of them die as they sweep over the country, leaving their dead bodies to poison the water, and thus making the people ill with what they term “lemmingfever.” So the pretty little lemmings are on occasions more to be dreaded than are even bears and wolves, but fortunately “lemming-years” do not come round very often, and the whole country is not visited by the pest at the same time. They made their last big raid in several districts in 1902, and they may come swarming down from the mountains again any summer.
I must now say something about the wild animals which are helpful to the people in that they provide them with food and bring money to their pockets. Foxes and other fur-bearing animals will always fetch good prices. There are also the hares, especially the white ones, which are shot and snared in winter-time in great quantities, and sold all over Europe. You may see them hanging up in the poulterers’ shops in London. Then there is that huge beast, the elk, almost as big as a small horse, who roams about the forests like his Canadian brother, the moose, and is hunted and shot for his flesh, skin, and massive flat horns. Red deer there are also in some parts of Norway; but the animal of greatest interest is undoubtedly the reindeer.
Up on the great mountain plateaux there are still plenty of wild reindeer roaming about in large herds, and numbers of them are shot every autumn by the farmers, who sell the skins, and dry the meat to be eaten in the winter months. It is, however, the so-called tame reindeer which are so invaluable to the people of the North. Without them it would be difficult, if not impossible, for the Laplanders to exist, and without them thousands of Norwegians would be poor indeed.
It is a popular idea that, in the winter, reindeer drawthe sleighs all over Norway. As a matter of fact, it is only in the extreme North, among the Lapps, that reindeer are employed for this kind of work; and very few Europeans ever have the opportunity of enjoying a drive in a reindeer “pulk,” as the queer sleigh is called. That the experience is most exhilarating and exciting is certain. In the first place, there is only one trace, connecting a kind of shoulder harness with the forepart of the sleigh; again, there is only one rein coming from a collar round the deer’s neck, and consequently driving a reindeer as we drive a horse is, of course, out of the question. All that it is possible to do is to head him in the required direction, and hope for the best. A jerk of the rein sets him going; and, as often as not, he starts at a frantic gallop, kicking up the snow into the driver’s face until he is almost blinded, and careering right and left at his own sweet will until he is tired. There is no difficulty about keeping to the road, because there are no roads—only miles and miles of snow, and the reindeer knows pretty well which way to go, since the camping-places and habitations in these regions are limited.
Imagine what it would be like to jump into a boat-like “pulk” all alone—for there is only room for one—twist the rein round your wrist, give it a flick, and so away over the waste of snow, watching the great antlers of the deer in front of you, and flinging yourself from side to side to prevent capsizing. And, if you do happen to upset, you must hang on to the rein like grim death and be dragged over the snow, otherwise the reindeer will either fly like the wind and be lost, or he may turn on you and attack you with his fore-hoofs.
These are the animals which are called the tame reindeer, but their tameness only consists in the fact that they are kept in herds together, and watched by men and dogs. They graze wherever they choose, and the men and the dogs have to follow them. When they are wanted for driving, to be milked, or to be killed, the Lapp has to lasso them over the horns, from a distance of thirty or forty yards, for no reindeer is ever sufficiently tame to permit a man to walk up to him.
The wealth of a Laplander depends on the number of reindeer which he possesses. They carry his baggage and draw his sleighs when encampments are moved; they provide him with milk and cheese, and, when killed, with excellent meat. Their skins keep him warm at night, and out of them are made boots, shoes, and leggings, as well as every kind of article of leather which the Lapp has a use for. Horns, hoofs, and bones all have their value, and not so long ago the women did all their sewing with needles and threads made out of reindeer’s bones and sinews. Moreover, after supplying their own wants, the herdsmen can sell the surplus meat and skins, and thus obtain the wherewithal to buy other necessaries or luxuries.
Cows, horses, sheep, goats, or pigs would be out of place in Lapland, and would find nothing to eat. But the “camel of the Arctic Desert,” as the reindeer has been called, thrives in the cold without care or shelter, and subsists on the moss, which he obtains by scraping deep holes in the snow. Small wonder that he is a valuable beast to the Laplander, who, however, repays him only with blows and lashes.
Farther south, on the Hardanger Fjeld andelsewhere, herds of tame reindeer have now been established by Norwegian companies as a new industry. Lapps are hired to look after them, and the meat is sold in great quantities in many parts of Europe, especially in Paris. A good trade is done also in the skins, for glove-making and other purposes. It is by no means difficult to have a look at one of these herds, and any visitor to Norway who finds himself within a day’s climb of the mountains whereon a herd is known to be grazing should do his utmost to see the reindeer. He will find them not, like the deer in Richmond Park, waiting to be looked at, but timid and restless, and ready to take flight at the slightest provocation. Only the Lapp herdsmen and their dogs are able to control these wild children of a wild land.
Chapter XIWild Nature—BirdsWhat a place Norway must be for birds’-nesting! There, if one went at the right time, and did not mind roughing it, one might find eggs which one could never come across in England, although laid by birds which are called British. But the Norwegians protect a great many of their birds by law in the same way as we do, and if this had only been done a hundred years ago the Great Auk would not have disappeared for ever.Most of our British birds are found in Norway at some time of the year, and many of our rarer birds are almost common in Norway—golden eagles, snowy owls, ravens, ring-ouzels, and crested tits, for instance.As with us, there are resident birds and migratory birds. Nearly all the kinds of birds which come from the South in the summer months to nest in the British Isles also go farther North and nest in Norway. You will find swallows, martins, cuckoos, warblers, and others of our summer birds all nesting over there, and you will find some varieties of southern birds which do not come to England, but go straight up from Eastern or Central Europe to breed in the cool of the North. Amongst these may be mentioned the blue-throated warbler, ortolan bunting, Lapland bunting, shore lark, red-throated pipit, tree warbler, and many others.Then there are birds which are common enough in England in the winter, but which mostly go away to Norwegian breeding-grounds, such as geese, ducks, woodcock, and snipe; while bramblings, fieldfares, and redwings are birds of the North, and never nest in Great Britain. Besides these, there are a certain number of birds which have no claim to be termed British, and which are found in Norway all the year round—the nut-cracker, several kinds of woodpecker, the ryper (the game-bird of the country), and others. And, on the other hand, some of our common resident birds migrate from Norway in the winter.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 eatwhen 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 Grönfjeld, 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 wellas 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.”Bondhus Glacier, Hardanger FjordBondhus Glacier, Hardanger FjordPage63.“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 flutteredupwards, 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 proclaimedfuglekongen(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 ofbread 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 influencedthe 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.
What a place Norway must be for birds’-nesting! There, if one went at the right time, and did not mind roughing it, one might find eggs which one could never come across in England, although laid by birds which are called British. But the Norwegians protect a great many of their birds by law in the same way as we do, and if this had only been done a hundred years ago the Great Auk would not have disappeared for ever.
Most of our British birds are found in Norway at some time of the year, and many of our rarer birds are almost common in Norway—golden eagles, snowy owls, ravens, ring-ouzels, and crested tits, for instance.As with us, there are resident birds and migratory birds. Nearly all the kinds of birds which come from the South in the summer months to nest in the British Isles also go farther North and nest in Norway. You will find swallows, martins, cuckoos, warblers, and others of our summer birds all nesting over there, and you will find some varieties of southern birds which do not come to England, but go straight up from Eastern or Central Europe to breed in the cool of the North. Amongst these may be mentioned the blue-throated warbler, ortolan bunting, Lapland bunting, shore lark, red-throated pipit, tree warbler, and many others.
Then there are birds which are common enough in England in the winter, but which mostly go away to Norwegian breeding-grounds, such as geese, ducks, woodcock, and snipe; while bramblings, fieldfares, and redwings are birds of the North, and never nest in Great Britain. Besides these, there are a certain number of birds which have no claim to be termed British, and which are found in Norway all the year round—the nut-cracker, several kinds of woodpecker, the ryper (the game-bird of the country), and others. And, on the other hand, some of our common resident birds migrate from Norway in the winter.
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 eatwhen 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 Grönfjeld, 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 wellas 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.”
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“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 flutteredupwards, 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 proclaimedfuglekongen(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 ofbread 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 influencedthe 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.