The Days of a Man i;;i883 



time in North Dakota, but in a level country of rich 

 farms he couldn't thrive — '"J eg konnte ikke trives 

 der'* — and so returned to his birthplace. In the 

 little school I was much pleased to hear the children 

 sing the various national songs of Norway — some 

 of which rank with the finest and most spirited of 

 any race. Among them were Bjornson's 



Ja vi elsker dette Landet 



and G. C. Wolff's 



Hvor herligt er mit Fodeland 

 Det havomkranste gamie Norge! 



Along the Norwegian fjords each farm stands at 

 the head or foot of a lake, while nowhere on the road 

 does one get away from the sound of waterfalls. 

 The Skjaeggedalsfos, plunging directly into a moun- 

 tain lake, and the wild Rjukanfos into a deep abyss. 

 Wreck of were the most remarkable of these cataracts. I say 

 were, because my friend, Conrad Mohr of Bergen, 

 formerly owner of Skjaeggedal, tells me that all of 

 the high falls — the Voringfos alone excepted — 

 have been taken up and scenically ruined by Ger- 

 man electric-power companies. 



The In 1883 also, returning from Italy, a few of us 



/w/^ spent a week among the picturesque extinct vol- 

 canoes of Auvergne in the heart of France. At the 

 town of Issoire (Iciodorum of the ancient Romans) 

 I passed an afternoon watching the operations of 

 the octroi outside the city walls. By the gate stood 

 a little shed where two or three soldiers in red 

 • coats with blue facings protected the industries of 

 the town. Wheelbarrow loads of turnips, baskets of 

 onions or artichokes, eggs, sheep, chickens — all 



I 256 3 



Norway's 

 waterfalls 



