“But about that bear at Vellavik?”
“Oh, yes. Well, Paulsen Vellavik, who lives yonder, was up under the mountain early in the spring. The bears get up there then to eat the young grass, for it springs there first. He was coming down a narrow scaur—you know what I mean? Such a place as that yonder”—pointing to a deep scaur in the side of the mountain. “Suddenly he meets four bears coming towards him, two old, two young. The bears did not wish to meet him, for when they were some distance off, they turned out of the road, and tried to climb up out of the scaur; but it was too steep. So down they came towards him, growling horribly. He immediately stuffed his body, head foremost, into a hole which he saw in the cliff. It was not deep enough to get himself hidden in. His legs stuck out. In another second two of the bears were upon him, biting at his legs. To scream was death. His only chance of preservation was to sham dead. After biting him, and putting him to great pain, which he endured without a sound, the bears paused, and listened attentively. Paulsen could distinctly feel their hot breath, and, indeed, see them from his hiding-place. After thus listening some time, and not hearing him breathe or move, they came to the conclusion that he was dead, and then they left him. Faint with loss of blood, his legs frightfully bitten, he managed, nevertheless, to crawl home, and is slowly recovering.”
“That is a very good bear-story,” said I; “have you another?”
“Ah, sir, the bear is a curious creature; he does not become so savage all at once. When they are young, they eat berries and grass; presently they take to killing small cattle—I mean sheep and goats. Later in life they begin killing horses and cows, and when the bear is very old, he attacks men. But they are great cowards sometimes. Ivar Aslaacson met a she-bear and three young ones this summer. She bit his leg; but he drove her off with nothing but a bidsel”—i.e., iron bit and bridle.
The biter bit, as you may say. This seems rather a favourite weapon of attack. Snorro relates how those two ruffians, Arek and Erek, rode off together into the forest, and were found dead, their heads punched in “med hesten-hoved-band”—i.e., with their horses’ bits.
“Once,” continued my informant, “I and a party of young fellows went up to a sæter on the mainland, just opposite Utne. It was Sunday, and we were going to have a lark with the sæter girls. They were in great alarm, for they had seen a bear snuffing about. Off we set in pursuit. At last we found him, skulking about, and drove him with our cries down towards the cliffs that look over the Fjord. We saw him just below us, and shouted with all our might, and the dogs barked. This alarmed him, and he seemed to lose his head, for he jumped to a place where there was no getting away from. Down we thundered rocks and stones at him. He looked in doubt what to do. Then he tried to jump upon another rock; but the stone slipped from under him, and rolled down, and he after it, and broke his neck. A famous fat fellow he was.
“A year or two ago, some men were fishing along shore at Skudenaes, when, lo and behold, they saw something white swimming along straight for the land. It was a white bear. One of them landed, and ran for a gun, and shot at the beast as it touched the shore. It put up its paws in a supplicating manner, as if to beg them to be merciful, but a shot or two more killed the animal without it offering any resistance. It is thought that the creature had escaped from some ship coming from Spitzbergen.”
After a favourable run, we enter a deep Fjord, and landing at its extremity, march up to a cluster of houses. Here I agree with one Simon, for the sum of three dollars, to convey my effects over the Fjeld to the Sogne Fjord. His daughter Sunniva prepares me some coffee. To ladle out the cream, she places on the board a stumpy silver spoon, the gilding of which is nearly worn off. It was shaped like an Apostle spoon, except that the shaft was very short, and ended in something like the capital of a pillar.
“That’s a curious spoon,” I observed to Madam, who now appeared on household cares intent.
“Ah! that belonged to my grandfather, Christopher Gaeldnaes. Did you never hear of him?”