WHALING AND BEAR-HUNTING 305 



and after views of ice and sea, bears and seals day after day, 

 rocks and trees and little farms or fishermen's houses nestling 

 in the greenery, with mountains and snow-fjeld far behind 

 them are very welcome. There is the " human interest," 

 which I have previously said has been remarked for its 

 absence in the polar regions by careful observers. 



. . . What a country this is to breed real men. Every boy 

 in every one of these isolated farms must of necessity learn 

 to row, to ride, to sail, to hunt, ski, handle an axe, do iron 

 and wood work, besides his farming ; and for one pound 

 sterling a year he can be in touch with the centres of European 

 news and civilisation. On the telephone eighteen kroner 

 a year they pay to send messages under the sea and over 

 forests and fjelds to their township, say forty or fifty miles 

 distant, whilst we belated people in these backwoods of 

 Berwickshire have to pay nine pounds a year for the same 

 convenience. 



As I write we see two such natives enviably employed 

 two small boys the day's work done on the farm, they don't 

 go to school in summer they are now managing a boat and 

 fishing. With the glass I can see the bow is almost full of 

 cod, haddock, and some codling. The elder boy looks about 

 twelve years old. He pulls up two at a time, shimmering, 

 iridescent, pink-tinted haddock. Who could believe the 

 rather plain grey fish we see in the fishmonger's could ever 

 look like a chunk of mother-of-pearl ? 



Woods and islands, rugged mountains, grey fjelds, with 

 snow in patches, pass hour after hour, till we come to the fiord 

 of the old capital Trondhjem Fiord. It reminds us of our 

 Firth of Forth, on a larger scale, with more woods. For me 

 Norway begins at Trondhjem going north, and ends there 

 coming south. Southern Norway seems to have no tradi- 

 tion, no direct appeal to me. In the soft distance I can see 

 height after height fading into the distance ; to the north 

 and east with the glass I can see the woods of Sundal in 

 Stordal, where we have hunted elk, and seen the golden 

 birch leaves falling, and the snowflakes drifting down into 

 the green depths of the swaying fir woods. The water of 

 the fiord is tinted with Stordal River. I recall its salmon 



