“Yes,” said I, “I am a Californian.”
California, the Land of Gold! The bakerman’s excitement increased many fold.
“Ja så!” he cried again, and stared me over from top to toe. I started toward the outer door, and had to cross the workroom on an oblique line in order to do so. Three men were rolling dough in the corner. With my first move to go, the bakerman hurried toward his three colleagues; and as neither side of a triangle is as long as its hypothenuse, he reached the men before I gained the door. He whispered excitedly. The three dropped their rolling pins, and in the few seconds before I made my escape all four stared at me, as frankly and naturally as do a group of youngsters before a cage of monkeys. This was scarcely a result of bad manners; it was rather due to the temporary and legitimate waiving of the code of etiquette in the interest of science, so to speak. An opportunity to see a “genuine Californian” does not often present itself in this north country, which is far from the beaten track of tourists. Probably nothing short of a Patagonian or an Ainu could produce equivalent excitement in the country districts of the United States. I suppose, however, that, had the bakermen known that I was of Scandinavian parentage, their interest in me would have been much less keen.
I took my bakery wares and some additional ones obtained at a grocer’s into the forest and had a picnic luncheon under the trees. After that, I walked around and explored the place. On the outskirts of the village I found to my astonishment a large merry-go-round, all fitted up with wooden steeds of many colors, ready to rear and prance when the power should be turned on. The merry-go-round was “made in America”!
On the wall of the waiting room in the railroad station was a “Prayer of the Horse,” which had been put up by the Society of Swedish Women for the Protection of Animals. It is needed up in that forest region where the labor of the horse is heavy.
As train time approached, a crowd of men gathered outside of the station. I judged them to be from the lumber camps, for they were rather a rough-looking group. While they waited they talked noisily and indulged in horse-play, punctuated by a very free use of profanity. One burly, overgrown youth seemed to possess a particularly rich vocabulary of “swear words,” and exhibited it with great gusto. Just when the noisiness had reached its climax, a neatly dressed, gentle-faced woman, who had been standing near me, stepped up to the men and handed several of them pieces of white paper which looked like handbills. Then she walked quietly away. The champion at profanity received a paper. “Svär icke!” (Swear not at all) was printed on it in staring black type. The voices of the men immediately dropped considerably, and after a few scattered remarks to one another, they separated. As the burly Swede walked away, he caught my eye and saw that I had been watching them and had noted what had taken place. Evidently mistaking me for a native, he came straight up to me.
“Say,” he asked, “did you see what that paper had on it?—Swear not at all!”
“Yes,” I replied, “I saw.”
He stared blankly at me for a moment or two as if he expected me to say something further, and then he moved off. This concrete method of teaching the second commandment seemed to have knocked the ground out from under his feet. I am not ready to conclude, however, that as a result of the lady’s missionary efforts he now is a candidate for membership in an anti-profanity society.
Presently the train for Söderhamn arrived, and I climbed aboard and journeyed toward the coast. The territory between Kilafors and Söderhamn is the heart of the lumbering region. Here I found the forests larger and denser, the streams filled with logs, and along the railroad tracks large piles of lumber covering many acres, awaiting transportation. We passed several saw-mills, near which were great mounds of bark and sawdust, saved for the sake of valuable by-products to be secured from them, such as charcoal, perfumes, and dyes.