Just before sundown twenty or thirty children from the public schools, dressed in the national costumes of various Swedish provinces, danced folk dances and sang folk songs in the park. Their dress alone was equal in interest to a small-sized museum. Some of the boys wore embroidered jackets and short buff trousers fastened at the knee with red worsted cords ending in pom-poms; one little chap cut a quaint figure in long red stockings and buckled shoes and a white coat with tails extending almost to his heels (he was the Scandinavian Santa Claus in miniature); several of the girls wore gaily embroidered bodices, with white blouses fastened with large brooches, short, very full, pleated skirts, and brightly colored stockings; some wore little fringed and embroidered woolen shawls across their shoulders; others wore the shawls on their heads; while still others wore stiff white linen caps, or pointed ones of black velvet trimmed with red. The platform upon which the children played was decorated with many flags, multiplying the rainbow array of color.

Near at hand was an open-air café with bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked young women, dressed also in peasant costume, receiving and filling orders. Here we had refreshments, and sat lazily during the lingering twilight, listening to the music, provided, not by a phonograph, or auto-piano, but by a large band; and the Swedes are no tyros at band-playing. When darkness had shut down, we watched an open-air play illustrating country life in Sweden. The stage scenery for the play included the humble home of a poor cotter and the mansion of a wealthy nobleman; the plot turned upon the rich young aristocrat’s falling madly in love with the peasant’s pretty daughter.

Verily, the Swedes have learned to enjoy out-of-door life to the full, both in summer and in winter. In the winter they have their snow and ice sports, and in the summer during the long, lovely spring-like days, they work and play out of doors as much as possible. This love for fresh air and sunshine, combined with their excellent in-door gymnastic system, their cleanly, temperate habits, and their cheerful dispositions, have made the Swedes the longest-lived people in Europe.

On Sunday, Fröken Söderquist and I went to services at the Church of Saint Nicholas, or Storkyrkan (the Great Church) as it is generally called. This, the oldest in Stockholm, was founded by Birger Jarl in 1264. Like almost every other Scandinavian church, it is State Lutheran. And it is appropriate that at the rear of the building should stand the statue of Olavus Petri, the apostle of Lutheranism, who on this spot stood in defiance of Catholic opposition and preached his faith.

The present building is nearly two hundred years old. The exterior is plain and rather ugly—of gray stone, with a clock tower and chimes. But the Gothic interior, which has been recently renovated, is really attractive. The slender clustering pillars and the interlacing arches which support the ceiling are of rosy brick, while the walls are of white plaster bordered with gold. The pews also are white with gold trimmings. In the walls are empty niches, which, in the old Roman Catholic days, three hundred years ago, were occupied by statues of saints. As in all old churches, there are plenty of tombs under the floor and in the walls. The two altars at which the anointing of newly crowned sovereigns takes place occupy a conspicuous position. They are upholstered in velvet of the Swedish national blue, gold embroidered; and above each is a canopy of gold topped off with a large golden crown supported by floating cherubs.

The sermon, read by a gowned and banded clergyman from a high pulpit, also in white and gold, was of a commonplace, prosaic character. When it was finally ended, the preacher read announcements handed to him by the clerk—marriage banns, notices of coming baptisms, of deaths, and of political elections.

In the afternoon we went to the National Museum. Here are fine exhibits from the prehistoric period and also from the historic, as well as an excellent collection of foreign and domestic art. Like the archæological museum in Copenhagen, this one has a beautiful display of tools and utensils from the New Stone Age. In fact, the similarity of the prehistoric collections of the two museums proves that the Danes and Swedes had an identical culture. And even yet their culture is almost identical. In the Stockholm collection from the Later Iron Age, however, gold ornaments are much more common than in Copenhagen. In fact, they are astonishingly numerous. One is led to the conclusion either that in the Sweden of those days there were a few people who loaded themselves down with jewelry, or that the wearing of jewelry was very general. Three of the gold collars or necklaces which I observed were positively massive, but were beautifully wrought. In this museum is the runestone upon which is the pictorial representation of the saga of Siegfried and the serpent. Siegfried is there roasting the dragon’s heart; Grani, Brunhilda’s horse, is tied to a near-by tree. Among the branches of the tree perches the bird which has told Siegfried of the attempted villainy of his foster father.

In the historic exhibits are many relics of interesting Swedish sovereigns: the spinet and the medicine chest of Gustav Adolf; a beautifully jeweled prayer book which belonged to his daughter, the eccentric Queen Christina; and the crown and sceptre of Charles X.

But I cared most of all for the picture gallery. It was such a surprise. Sweden has an astonishing number of great living artists now—men and women who are attracting the attention of the world by contributing something new and truly Scandinavian to the art of the world. Until the last century, you will remember, Scandinavia had done practically nothing in the fine arts; and some concluded that she never would do anything; that her race was run. But in the Stockholm gallery are quite sufficient examples to prove the danger of hasty conclusion.

It was pleasant to talk the pictures over with Fröken Söderquist. We both greatly enjoyed Bruno Liljefors’ charming animal sketches; and also the quaint Dalecarlian scenes by Anders Zorn and Carl Larsson. Larsson works mostly in water colors; and his wife and children are very frequently his subjects; but he does not ignore the children of his neighbors. Recently he published, with notes, under the title “Larssons,” a most delightful collection of family glimpses; and another volume, more beautiful still, entitled “Andras Barn” (Other People’s Children). Cederström’s “Bringing Home the Body of Charles XII” is, I suppose, well known. I had seen copies of it, but did not care for them. The original, however, I think fascinating; and what most attracted me was not the central object, the body of the king, borne by his officers, but the grief depicted on the face of the hunter who stands in the snow by the roadside, bowed in sorrow. To him Charles is not the “madman of the North,” who, after saving Sweden from international highway robbery, nearly lost it through his foolhardiness; he is the great and brave king of the Swedes.

Portraits in crayon of Selma Lagerlöf and of Ellen Key also interested me. Both women have fine, strong faces, but Miss Key’s face is more than merely strong. It shows the high serenity of a courageous spirit with a gospel which it feels called upon to preach, even though to do so means social ostracism. On the frame above the placid countenance the artist had regretfully inscribed the words: “Could I but have represented your purity of soul!”

Some of the apartments of the stately royal palace are open to visitors. I viewed them yesterday. The rooms occupied by the late king were of special interest. The billiard hall is hung with beautiful tapestries—not orthodoxly made in Paris, but in Saint Petersburg at the manufactory established by Peter the Great in 1716. Some of the other rooms, however, contain tapestries of French workmanship. In Oscar’s study is his desk, as he left it, with his writing materials and the portraits of his family still upon it. The State apartments are tremendously elegant, with carvings and frescoes, brocades and paintings, tapestries and sculptures, gold and silver; but I have lived in many a California bungalow that I am sure was more pleasingly furnished and more artistic, as well as decidedly more comfortable. I tried to see the apartments of the dowager Queen Sophie, which I understood to be open to the public, but the guard at the door in the blue and gray uniform and the cocked hat of the period of Charles XII stood firmly at his post and emphatically repeated a word foreign to my Swedish vocabulary: “Stängt! Stängt!” The soldier’s determination not to let me pass was obvious, so I soon abandoned all plans to pry into Queen Sophie’s privacy, and went to the Museum of the North instead. “Stängt,” as I learned from my dictionary later, in Swedish means “closed.”

On the way to the Museum I stopped for a few minutes at an institute for the development of the Swedish manual arts. The object is to preserve the peasant knowledge of old-time weaving, needlework, and the like, and to create a demand for such work—an excellent purpose. I wish that you might have seen some of the woven pieces, Cynthia. They were beautiful, both in color and in composition. Some of the heavier ones reminded me of the finest work of the Navajo Indians. I am almost as charmed with the Scandinavian art weavings as I am with the Royal Copenhagen porcelain.

In contrast to the industrial institute, the Museum of the North deals with things distinctly past and gone. It is filled with Northern antiquities of all sorts, including a tremendous amount of royal “old clothes”—military uniforms, coronation robes, and the like. Among these relics are a pair of silk stockings embroidered in silver, which belonged to Gustav Adolf, and the embroidered collar and cuffs and the shirt—still blood-stained—worn by him on the battlefield of Lützen, where he met his death. The bay horse (I had always supposed that it was white) which the king rode at Lützen is also there, carefully stuffed and mounted, with the old saddle—the gift of Gustav’s queen—on his back. This horse, my museum guide-book informs me, was led in the king’s funeral procession, and died in 1639, seven years after his master. The remains of the faithful old steed were kept in the palace and were somewhat damaged by the great fire which destroyed the royal residence in 1697. That accounts for their present rather tattered and moth-eaten appearance. The collection of ancient armor and weapons is very complete, and includes a sword, shield, and helmet which belonged to Gustav Vasa, five centuries ago. In the armory are also long rows of coaches and sleighs richly decorated, which have borne Swedish royalty on journeys, ill-fated and otherwise.

And now I, too, must journey on. Mine will be a mere tourist pilgrimage, and will be in the present-day, happy Sweden, so I have pleasant anticipations. Again “Adjö! Adjö!”