AUTUMN IN NORWAY. 
173 
the first being cut in June—and the swathe hangs dry¬ 
ing in masses along the stake-fences. No microscopic 
patch of grass which may find roothold on ledge 
of crag is overlooked. Each blade is cut with tiny 
crooked scythe, and the bundles of hay, along with 
faggots of firewood collected from the same crags, are 
despatched to the valley beneath by the long wires, 
familiar to Norwegian tourists, which stretch heaven¬ 
wards beyond sight. In Norway nothing is wasted. 
Natural products may be few and poor, but they are 
utilized to the very last blade, or grain, or stick. 
Potatoes are impressed to make bread, or what serves 
as such; while even their “ tops,” which the British 
farmer burns as refuse, are here dried and stacked to 
provide winter provend for the cattle. Almost each 
farmer grows a tiny patch of hops to flavour his home¬ 
brewed ale, and inside his house is heard the rattle of 
the loom, as the womenkind industriously transform the 
coarse fleeces of the hill-sheep into cloth for family wear. 
The extension of steam-navigation in the fjords and 
improving means of transit will, no doubt, in time alter 
this patriarchal simplicity; but at present each valley, 
indeed almost each house and hamlet, is largely self- 
supporting and independent of external supplies. Such 
minute economies and intense dislike of waste are, 
however, at times apt to be a nuisance. Thus, for 
example, when encamped on the fjeld, one finds on 
the third or fourth morning that one’s stock of 
iron plates and cups, always limited, seems to have 
vanished; and on inquiry discovers that the missing 
crockery is all carefully put aside, one plate containing 
fragments of cold trout, the remnants of yesterday’s 
