Nights one,
And days two,
So long it is to Jule.
The old lady hurried back at once to her John Anderson, and they kept the festival on the day signified, which they felt sure was the right one, as it afterwards turned out to be.
Bishop Ullathorne and the other miracle-mongers will, no doubt, fasten upon this legend as one to be embodied in their next catalogue of supernatural interventions in support of the Romish faith, alongside of “Our Lady of Sallette,” and other pretty stories. One might as well religiously believe in those charming inventions of Ovid, to which the imagination clings with such fondness, so thoroughly are they intertwined with human sympathies.
But let us get nearer our own time. Four years ago, I hear, the people of the valley were terrified by the apparition of a Scotchman, who had taken it into his head to walk through Norway in full Highland costume, armed with a hanger and a pair of pistols. A man who saw him close to this took him for the foul fiend, and made off into the wood. Others, who were less alarmed, considered him to be mad (gal). After a good deal of difficulty he brought the folks to a parley, and not knowing a word of Norsk, but being thirsty, he asked for grog. The sailors on board the Reine Hortense might have understood these four letters, when signalled in Arctic waters by the aristocratic owner of The Foam. Not so the Sætersdal people. They thought he said “gröd,” and brought him a lump of porridge. He then asked for “water,” when they brought him a pair of large worsted gloves (vanter), here pronounced vorter. This reminds me of a friend of mine who arrived at a station-house in a great state of hunger. He could speak enough of the language to inquire for provisions. “Porridge,” was the reply. “Anything else?” “Beeren?” “Yes, by all means,” exclaimed he, revelling in imagination on bear-collops. The dame presently entered with a dish of beeren, which consisted of—wild strawberries!—a nice dessert, but not fitted for a pièce de résistance.
Perhaps the reader will not object to be introduced to some of the folks here nominally. Many of the grand old names current in Sætersdal don’t exist elsewhere in Norway, but are to be found in the Sagas; and this is another proof of the tenacity with which this part of the country adheres to everything belonging to its forefathers. Instead of such names as Jacob or Peder, we have Bjorgulv, Torgrim, Torkil, Tallak, Gunstein, Herjus, Tjöstolf, Tarjei, Osuf, Aamund, Aanund, Grunde; while the women answer to such Christian names as Durdei, Gjellaug, Svalaug, Aslaug (feminine of Aslack), Asbjorg (feminine of Asbjörn), Sigrid (feminine of Sigur), and Gunvor. The dog, even, who comes up into the loft, and seems anxious to make my acquaintance, is called Storm.
As the next morning is rainy, I look about the premises for anything noteworthy. In one corner is a bundle of thin strips of bark. These are taken from the branches of the linden-tree, and steeped in water from spring to autumn. They are then separated into shreds, and woven by the peasants into ropes, which are not so durable, however, as those of hemp. A bunch of carraway shrub is hanging up to dry. It grows all about here. The seeds are mixed with all kinds of food.
“Friske smag har det,” remarks the old lady. “It has a fresh taste with it.”