306 WHALING AND BEAR-HUNTING 



and hear again its solemn roar when the mist hung low in 

 the glen. What days of exertion these were, climbing and 

 descending under the dripping pines, two men and a hound, 

 stealthily, silently, with hardly a word for hours, watching 

 through the woods for the gaunt form of a bull elk, days of 

 such fatigue and nights of profound repose, alike haunted 

 with the sweet melancholy of the saetar songs. 



Why do such merry, cheerful people as bonders' daughters 

 sing such sad songs ? Here is what I remember of one that 

 haunts me now. 



Its rhythm just suits your steps if you hum it, not loud 

 enough to disturb an elk as you slowly ascend, step by 

 step, through the wet pines in the morning to the high 

 grounds, and the quick part helps you returning as you 

 swing down the last of the hill-side from one red-leafed rowan 

 to the next, down to the level ; and months after, it comes 

 to you when you are in a street and you see the woods and 

 the river winding a silver thread at the foot of the glen and 

 the welcome smoke of the log-built farm. Once I hummed 

 it unconsciously on a dull, wet day at the quayside in Hull, 

 standing amongst emigrants looking at the swirling and 

 muddy river, and a Norse woman standing near with a white 

 handkerchief for headdress began to hum it too we could 

 not speak to each other, but our thoughts were harking back 

 to saetar and glen and hill the charm of Norway. 



