CHAPTER XV.
“We remounted, and I rode on, thinking of the vision of loveliness I was leaving in that wild dell. We travel a great way to see hills and rivers, thought I; but, after all, a human being is a more interesting object than a mountain. I shall remember the little gipsy of Hadjilar long after I have forgotten Hermus and Sipylus.”
N. P. Willis.
THE VELOCIPEDE—ROADSIDE HALT—LOVELY SCENERY—DISAPPOINTED AUDIENCE—THE LITTLE GIPSY—THE LOST POCKET—THE SEARCH—GIPSY LAMENTATION—AMUSED PEASANT GIRLS—NORWEGIAN HONESTY—THE POCKET FOUND—A NOBLE HEART—PLEASANT VOYAGEURS—PATRINS—STORKLEVSTAD—TAMBOURINE LOST—NORWEGIAN HONESTY—ECCENTRIC VISITS—INTERROGATORY—THE CAPTAIN—THE INTERVIEW—THE VILLAGE MAGNATE—MEGET GODT—ESMERALDA IN CAMP—THE LAST VISIT—THE MOORLAND MAIDEN.
We had not gone far along the road, when we saw a blacksmith’s shop; a man suddenly appeared from it, and came towards us on a velocipede.
“Why,” said Esmeralda, “there’s a velocity”!
“What broad wheels,” said Zachariah.
“It’s Arthur coming to town,” answered Noah.
The man was working it along might and main, with his hair flying; he was a strong framed man, with an intelligent countenance. The velocipede was probably manufactured by himself; although very roughly made, he managed to go at a fair pace; when we came to the route turning from the main road to “Harpe Brö” our companion with the naturally white hair, who had occasionally ridden with us during the morning, and by whose assistance we had increased our vocabulary of Norwegian words, wished us good day.
At a short distance beyond the blacksmith’s shop, as our donkeys were in advance, they strayed off the road into an open fir wood. Two young ladies, and a man had followed us for a short distance; they seemed to think we were going to halt in the wood, and as they stood watching us, we thought they seemed disappointed, when the donkeys were driven back to the road, and continued their journey. It was rather too early in the day for rest. Sauntering quietly along, we at length came to an open space having a wooden seat; this accommodation we particularly noticed in Norway at some points on the wayside. Generally, in a pleasant romantic spot, the ground is gravelled from the road, and a long wooden seat is placed for the convenience, and rest of the weary wayfarer. In selecting this spot, care is taken that it is near water, and close by, we usually found a deliciously clear stream, to slake the travellers’ thirst. On this occasion we at once commenced unloading our baggage near the wooden seat, and as we did not intend to remain very long, Noah left the pockets girthed on two of the donkeys, who soon after wandered off to graze.
When we looked round we were struck with the beauty of the scene. Not far above us, on the opposite side the road, a log cottage stood lonely on the side of a steep rising hill. A brawling stream passed underneath the road near us; we saw it again, as it issued from a narrow brick arch, and was soon lost in the bushes of the declivity, which formed the bank of the Logan just below.
The picturesque summit of a mountain closed the narrow valley from the world beyond.
Leaving our things by the seat, we went down to the stream at the arch below the road, and crossed to a small patch of green sward on the other side. It was quiet and sheltered, and our fire was soon lighted. Tea, sardines, bread and cheese, formed our repast. A woman from the log cottage came down and stood near looking at us. We gave some biscuits to a small child in her arms; Zachariah was sent off to fish. It was about 10 o’clock when we arrived; the view was charming; Noah lounged on the grass with the violin; as he was tuning it up, a young man came and leaned over the rails of the road above, in silent contemplation. He is expecting some music. You little think, my young friend, the treat you are going to have, thought we. When Noah began to scrape, the effect was marvellous; we turned, and the young man was gone. The sounds ceased, for Noah himself fell asleep. Esmeralda had a very fair voice. It was pleasant to hear her sing at times, as we walked along the winding valley of the Gudbransdalen. Now we amused ourselves talking by the camp fire, and as we reclined on our waterproofs, we wrote down at her dictation, one of her ballads: “The Little Gipsy,” with the addition of a few words, by a gipsy aunt, where Esmeralda’s memory had failed. We now give the song in its entirety. It has been long a favourite with the country people.