On this occasion there were two or three knots of people, suggestive of something of unusual interest; and we found the centre of each to be a little baby brought to be christened, surrounded by admiring relatives. Such babies! such funny little chrysalis-looking pets, swaddled and rolled up! the swaddling-bands being of many colours, the more brilliant the better—red, white, green, and crimson—with the cross frequently introduced, and generally so worked as to come uppermost in the band. The swaddling process seems much the same as in Brittany, where a ring is sometimes fastened at the back by which to hang the child up while the mother goes to work. No one could have seen this peaceful Sunday morning without being struck with the beautifully clean appearance of every one there—the homespun (_vadmel_) looked so sound, and so likely to wear well; the old silver ornaments so respectable and heirloomy. Of course on week-days, when the women are seen in the roughest of their outdoor life, it would be unreasonable to expect to find them as neat and prim as on Sunday. What a contrast, too, did this glorious sunshine and joyous meeting present to the bleak dark days of winter, when perhaps a hundred and fifty pairs of snow shoes, eight feet long, are set up round the church, waiting their owners’ bidding to start _home_!
[Illustration: _The Lych Gate, Nordfjord._]
[Illustration: _Sanoe, looking down the Valley._]
After this cheerful interlude we went on to the next station—if such it could be called. We intended making a meal there, and rather looked forward to it; but nothing, not a single thing, could be had. We therefore made a fire, and into a black pot put some portable soup, with slices of Brand’s gravy-looking biscuits. Whilst the Tentmaster tried to do the soup the Patriarch in vain sought a wooden spoon; not even that was to be got; so the soup was stirred and tasted with a birch twig. But he made a discovery: whilst spoon-hunting in a drawer, which would only partly open, he saw the end of a mutton bone; perseverance was rewarded, the drawer was opened; but the result worse than a blank, for the shoulder-blade bone of mutton was bare, save the green fluffy mould in which it was mantled. Some people may say, “Not so bad; soup and biscuit, biscuit and soup, is a change.” Still, in long journeys with _stolkjærs_ over rough ground, you can form no idea how shaky and restless it becomes. Moral: always carry a spoon, and, above all things, never start anywhere without a nosebag with plenty in it.
