I spent the night at Naes, a little village on Romsdal Fiord, but rose early and resumed my zig-zag voyage. As we steamed away from Naes, I secured a fine view of Romsdal Horn, a horn-shaped, snow-crowned peak with veils of mist festooned about its purple slopes, rising far above the other mountains at the head of the fiord. At Vesternaes I left the boat in order to cross by team the neck of the peninsula which separates Stor Fiord from Romsdal. This method of travel is called in Norway, journeying by “skyds.” The vehicle in which I rode is called a “cariole.” This is a rather clumsy two-wheeled cart, with room for one passenger. Sticking out at the back of the vehicle is a saddle-like seat for the driver, who is generally a boy. The conventional cariole seems to be drawn by a fat little Norwegian pony, cream colored with brown trimmings. My pony was correct as to color, but it was very thin, and its harness was so large that it rattled like castanets when the little animal raced down hill.

As soon as I had taken my seat the skyds boy tucked the rubber storm robe around me, snapped it fast, leaped into his saddle, uttered the queer whirring sound which all over Scandinavia means “Git up,” and we were off. The road was smooth, but it ran either up hill or down all of the distance. Where the way was steep the boy dropped from his seat and walked until we reached the top of the hill, when he sprang into the saddle again without slowing up the pony. If the other side of the hill was a gradual decline, the pony trotted; if it was steep, he galloped.

The drive covered about twelve English miles and was interesting or beautiful all of the way. Shortly after we started, we passed a Norwegian country school house, which resembled the plain district school houses in the United States. It was the recess period, and the children were outside. There were several large girls all of whom wore small, black-fringed shawls around their heads. About half of the children had little books, which looked like catechisms, in their hands and were studying. The Lutheran religion is taught in all of the common schools of Scandinavia.

Farther on was a hay field which looked like merely an overgrown lawn. An old man had cut part of it and was putting handfuls of the short grass upon a wire “clothes line” to dry. In another place I noticed grass hay drying upon a rack or tray arrangement made from the slender branches of trees. Surely it is but little exaggeration to say that the Norwegians do not let a single blade of grass go to waste.

As the pony was slowly climbing a hill, he surprised a roly-poly little boy and a roly-poly girl, mere infants, who were playing on the road. As the children tried to scurry out of the way, the little sister, who was the smaller and chubbier of the two, fell down upon the road. The little brother, fearful for her safety, did not stop to help her to her feet but rolled her, as if she were a little barrel, out of danger’s way. He worked like an expert and was a plucky infant, considering his very evident fear; but the spectacle was so funny that the skyds boy and I both laughed heartily. At this the infant cavalier pulled from his pocket a battered tin horn and blew a loud blast of triumph and defiance at us; whereupon we laughed again. I am persuaded that the little knight of the tin horn is no common child.

For a time we followed an arm of the fiord, but soon we began to climb more directly towards the summit. Though the mountains were rugged, we were seldom out of sight of houses. In fact, houses and mountains seem inseparable in Norway. Upon perfectly impossible hillsides clung Norwegian homes, near which were tiny scraps of hayfields with hay hung out to dry, or with shaggy ponies grazing upon the stubble, lifting their heads now and then to neigh friendly greetings to their fellow doing service in the cariole. The houses were generally plain buildings, sometimes painted red or yellow, but frequently unpainted. Tiles or slate or shingles formed the roofs of the better houses, but the poorer were often thatched, or roofed with sod which quite frequently bore a pretty crop of moss and grass, ferns and flowers. And, as in Sweden and Denmark, the windows of even the humblest homes were as a rule made cheerful by rows of blooming plants.

Presently we passed the timber line in our upward climb, and the mountains took on a desolate look; but soon purple heather relieved the desolation; and some blue-colored berries caught my eye, growing in profusion by the roadside. My skyds boy helped himself to them and gathered some for me.

After a climb of about two and a half miles we came to a high valley rimmed with mountains. Near the roadside were a half dozen buildings, all except one of which were cow barns. The one exception bore over the doorway in crooked letters the words “Turist Hytten—1000 Fod over Havet”—tourist cottage, one thousand feet above sea-level. In Scandinavia the foot is longer than in the United States so we were really quite high up. Here we stopped to rest the pony and I went into the “hyt” to get some coffee. This was served by a woman with dangling silver rings in her ears, in a plain little room, upon the wall of which were large prints of King Haakon and Queen Maud. In a half hour we were on the way again, and after skirting a heath-bordered lake and climbing another hill the boy announced that we were at the summit.

The other, or southern, side of the hill was sunny and green; and here were about a dozen cow barns with sod roofs, surrounded by stone fences within which were contented little Norwegian cows grazing upon the sweet grass. Close beside was a house, hardly distinguishable from the barns except for the larger size and the curtained glass windows. The establishment like the turist hyt, was a “saeter,” or summer pasture. As soon as the grass is high enough in the summer the cows are taken to the pastures high up among the mountains where they remain until the grass is gone and winter approaches. At the saeter, butter and cheese are made, to be stored away for winter use or to be marketed.

The summit past, the road ran down hill for almost all of the remainder of the journey, so the pony galloped headlong down the smooth road and we were soon in the fishing port of Söholt. After having luncheon at the Söholt hotel, I wandered around until it was time for my boat. On my walk I smiled at two rosy-cheeked little girls whom I passed on the road. To my astonishment, they responded by deep, simultaneous courtesies, and quietly went their way. An American child, I fear, would have merely stared, called out “Hello” or responded in a ruder manner still.

Söholt is a typical fiord village. There are the tourist hotels, the steepled Lutheran church, the scattered houses clinging to the hillsides, the wooden pier, the sod-covered boathouses along the water, the nets spread on the sand to dry, boats pulled up on the sand, other boats with fishermen setting nets out on the fiord, and people working with fish on the beach.

The proprietor of the hotel at which I had taken luncheon was at the pier waiting for the fiord steamboat, and from him I learned much about the fishing industry. Several men were busy barreling and boxing up fresh-looking fish. Those were small or thin herrings, I was told, and were merely to be shipped to other fishing stations to be used as bait for cod. Much of the cod which I saw around on the beach was from Iceland;—the large boat at anchor in the harbor had recently come from there with a cod cargo—but great quantities of cod were also caught in Stor Fiord. The Iceland cod is freed from its surplus salt by washing in the sea; dried by spreading on the rocks along the shore; then packed away in great cylindrical-shaped piles on the sand—heads in and tails out—to cure. The sides of the cylinder are covered with canvas and the tops with cone-shaped wooden roofs, painted red. Near the pier a man and two little girls, their hands covered with thick woolen mittens, were building one of those cod cylinders; and scattered over the beach were dozens of the covered piles of codfish, looking like little huts. A boat with a man and a woman in it, both rowing, was making its way to the Iceland vessel for a new load of salt cod.

By the time I had acquired the practical information which I have just retailed to you, the fiord boat Geiranger, on which I was to embark, arrived. A number of men and about three times as many hunting dogs landed from the boat; but when I went aboard I found a goodly supply of hunters remaining, and about twenty dogs—barking, whining and fighting—on the deck. However, to my relief, these also landed in a short time.

At Merok on Stor Fiord, a pleasant, wide-awake-looking woman boarded the boat, and I soon fell into conversation with her. She was a merchant in Aalesund, she told me. The foundation of my Scandinavian conversational medium, as you know, is very bad Danish. In Sweden I stuck in a few Swedish words for flavoring and the intelligent Swedes understood my utterances and called my jargon “bra Svensk”; in Norway I remembered to pronounce m-e-g-e-t (much) phonetically instead of “myet” as the Danes do, and the Aalesund merchant lady declared that what I spoke was not Danish at all, but Norwegian. I seem to possess a variety of “three-in-one” Scandinavian linguistic equipment. Fortunately, it works, and is very convenient when one is traveling. The Aalesund lady, however, recognized that there was abundant room for improvement, and kindly supplied corrections as the need rose.

The lady, I soon learned, was an enthusiastic voter. It was due to the fair-mindedness of the “Venstre,” or Liberal party, she said, that Norwegian women had been granted the right of suffrage; now the “Höire,” or Conservative faction, acknowledged that the women should have been given the vote long ago, since they have demonstrated that they are capable of making good use of it. The Norwegian women, she told me, are at present working for total prohibition and for just labor laws for women. Their slogan is “The same pay for the same work, regardless of sex.” May they win speedily!