“I can’t say I ever did.”
“Indeed! Why he was a man renowned for wisdom and wealth all over Norway in the Danish days. Our clergyman tells me that this sort of spoon used to be hung round the child’s neck at baptism.” (Döbe = dipping.)
In the Museum of Northern Antiquities at Copenhagen, a similar one may be seen.
The extent of the household accommodations was not great. There were no sheets; as a make-shift, I suggested a table-cloth, of the existence of which I was aware; and, in place of a towel, the pis-aller was a shirt. I rose at three o’clock, A.M., as we had a long journey before us; but Simon was not ready till much later. He was evidently a fumbling sort of fellow; and even when we had started, he had to run back and get something he had forgotten. From my experience in guides, I augured ill of his capabilities. To judge from the map, I thought we ought to accomplish the passage of the Fjeld before dark; but all that could be got out of him on this subject was, he could not say. If we couldn’t get over, there was a châlet where we might sleep.
As we trudged up the very narrow valley behind the houses, following the brawling stream, I had leisure to survey the surrounding objects. Right and left were impending mountains of enormous height, while in front of us stood, forbidding our approach, a wall of rock. Behind lay the placid Fjord, with a view of Folgefond in the distance, just catching the blush of the sunrise. The summits of some of the cliffs were cut into all sorts of fantastic shapes. The stupendous ruins which choked the path and stream, and were of limestone, at once explained the reason of the horrid forms above. The rock, from its nature, is evidently given to breaking away, and when it does so, does not study appearances. My guide, however, has something to say on the subject.
“Yonder, sir, is the priest. Don’t you see him? His nose (Probst-snabel) came away some months ago, so that now his face is not so easy to make out. That other rock goes by the name of Störk’s stool. Did you ever hear the story? Störk was a strong man, and a daring withal. One day he was up at a Thing (assize) at Kinservik, where the Bishop presided. Enraged at some decision made by his right reverence, Störk struck at him with his axe, but luckily missed him, making a fearful gash in the door-post. Störk immediately fled to Ose, below there. Not long after, the Bishop’s boat was descried rowing into the Fjord, to take vengeance for the act of violence. Störk at once fled up to that rock there, to watch the proceedings. Close by it there is a hole, and he had ready a vast flat stone, for the purpose of drawing it over the mouth, in case the Bishop came in pursuit. Meantime, he had left instructions with his son Tholf (which also means twelve) how to act. Tholf, who was a huge fellow, and nearly as strong as his father, set out in his boat to meet the Bishop, having on board a barrel of beer. As the other boat drew near he rested on his oars, and asked the Bishop’s permission to drink his health; and this being given, he took up the barrel and began drinking out of the bung-hole. The size of this fellow rather appalled the Bishop, who discreetly inquired whether Störk had any other such sons. ‘He has Tholf,’ was the crafty answer. When the Bishop, not relishing an encounter with twelve such fellows, turned his boat round, and retreated with all speed.”
In spite of my anticipations, I find the path gradually unfolds itself as we advance, worming in and out of the rocks. More luxuriant shrub-vegetation I never beheld; a perfect Paradise of Sub-alpine plants. There were raspberries, and strawberries, and haeggebaer (bird-cherry), the wood of which is the toughest in Norway; besides many kinds of wild flowers, peeping among the fallen rocks. And then the ferns: there was the delicate oak-leaved fern, and the magnificent “polysticum logkitis,” with several others. Growing among these was a plant which appeared to be parsley-fern, specimens of which I stuffed into my book.
“Ay, that’s a nasty plant, sir,” said my guide. “En hel Maengde (a great lot) of it grows hereabouts. We call it Torboll” (I suppose from the destroying god Thor), “or Heste-spraeng (horse-burster). It stops them up at once, and they begin to swell, and the only chance then is a clyster.”
The cause of all this luxuriance of vegetation is to be found in the sheltered position of the valley, and the moisture caused by the