Under Side and Cross Section of Skee, showing Groove.
In Norway, where the woods are pathless in winter, and where heavy snows continually fall from the middle of October until the middle of April, it is easily seen how essential, nay indispensable, the skees must be to hunters, trappers, and lumber-men, who have to depend upon the forests for their livelihood. Therefore, one of the first accomplishments which the Norwegian boy learns, as soon as he is old enough to find his way through the parish alone, is the use of these national snow-shoes. If he wakes up one fine winter morning and sees the huge snow-banks blockading doors and windows, and a white, glittering surface extending for miles as far as his eye can reach, he gives a shout of delight, buttons his thick woollen jacket up to his chin, pulls the fur borders of his cap down over his ears, and then, having cleared a narrow path between the dwelling-house and the cow-stables, makes haste to jump into his skees. If it is cold (as it usually is) and the snow accordingly dry and crisp, he knows that it will be a splendid day for skee-running. If, on the contrary, the snow is wet and heavy, it is apt to stick in clots to the skees, and then the sport is attended with difficulties which are apt to spoil the amusement. We will take it for granted, however, that there are no indications of a thaw, and we will accompany the Norse boy on his excursions over the snowy fields and through the dense pine-woods, in which he and his father spend their days in toil, not untempered with pleasure.
“Now, quick, Ola, my lad!” cries his father to him; “fetch the axe from the wood-shed and bring me my gun from the corner behind the clock, and we will see what luck we have had with the fox-traps and the snares up in the birch-glen.”
And Ola has no need of being asked twice to attend to such duties. His mother, in the meanwhile, has put up a luncheon, consisting of cold smoked ham and bread and butter, in a gayly painted wooden box, which Ola slings across his shoulder, while Nils, his father, sticks the axe into his girdle, and with his gun in one hand and his skee-staff in the other, emerges into the bright winter morning. They then climb up the steep snow-banks, place their skees upon the level surface, and put their feet into the bands. Nils gives a tremendous push with his staff and away he flies down the steep hill-side, while his little son, following close behind him, gives an Indian war-whoop, and swings his staff about his head to show how little he needs it. Whew, how fast he goes! How the cold wind sings in his ears; how the snow whirls about him, filling his eyes and ears and silvering the loose locks about his temples, until he looks like a hoary little gnome who has just stepped out from the mountain-side! But he is well used to snow and cold, and he does not mind it a bit.
In a few seconds father and son have reached the bottom of the valley, and before them is a steep incline, overgrown with leafless birch and elder forests. It is there where they have their snares, made of braided horse-hair; and as bait they use the red berries of the mountain ash, of which ptarmigan and thrushes are very fond. Now comes the test of their strength; but the snow is too deep and loose to wade through, and to climb a declivity on skees is by no means as easy as it is to slide down a smooth hill-side. They now have to plod along slowly, ascending in long zig-zag lines, pausing often to rest on their staves, and to wipe the perspiration from their foreheads. Half an hour’s climb brings them to the trapping-grounds. But there, indeed, their efforts are well rewarded.
“Oh, look, look, father!” cries the boy, ecstatically. “Oh, what a lot we have caught! Why, there are three dozen birds, as sure as there is one.”
His father smiles contentedly, but says nothing. He is too old a trapper to give way to his delight.
“There is enough to buy you a new coat for Christmas, lad,” he says, chuckling; “and if we make many more such hauls, we may get enough to buy mother a silver brooch, too, to wear at church on Sundays.”
“No, buy mother’s brooch first, father,” protests the lad, a little hesitatingly (for it costs many boys an effort to be generous); “my coat will come along soon enough. Although, to be sure, my old one is pretty shabby,” he adds, with a regretful glance at his patched sleeves.