The Modern Vikings

III

Where the Myrbraaten cottage had stood, the bare rock now stares black and dismal against the sun. The rumor of the calamity spread like wild-fire through the valley, and the folk of the whole parish came to gaze upon the ruin which the avalanche had wrought. All that was left of Myrbraaten was the cow-stable, where the cow and Little Hans and Big Hans had slept. Little Hans had been very ill-behaved the night before, so Turid had sent him to sleep with the cow; and Big Hans, who thought it would be cruel to ask his companion to spend the night in that dark stable, with only a cow for company, had gone with him and slept with him in the hay. Thus it happened that Little Hans and Big Hans both were saved. It was pitiful to see them shivering in the wet snow. Big Hans was crying as if his heart would break; and the women who crowded about him were unable to comfort him. What should he, a small boy of ten, do alone in this wide world? His father and his mother and his little brothers and sisters were all gone, and there was no one left who cared for him. Just then Little Hans, who was anxious to express his sympathy, put his nose close to Big Hans’ face and rubbed it against his cheek.

“Yes, you are right, Little Hans,” sobbed the boy, embracing his faithful friend; “you do care for me. You are the only one I have left now, in all the world. You and I will stand by each other always.”

Little Hans then said, “Ma-a-a,” which in his language meant, “Yes.”

The question soon arose in the parish – what was to be done with Big Hans? He had no relatives except a brother of his mother, who had emigrated many years before to Minnesota; and there was no one else who seemed disposed to assume the burden of his support. It was finally decided that he should be hired out as a pauper to the lowest bidder, and that the parish should pay for his board. But when the people who bid for him refused to take Little Hans too, the boy determined, after some altercation with the authorities, to seek his uncle in America. One thing he was sure of, and that was that he would not part from Little Hans. But there was no one in the parish who would board Little Hans without extra pay. Accordingly, the cow and the barn were sold for the boy’s benefit, and he and his comrade went on foot to the city, where they bought a ticket for New York.

Thus it happened that Big Hans and Little Hans became Americans. But before they reached the United States some rather curious things happened to them. The captain of the steamship, Big Hans found, was not willing to take a goat as a passenger, and Big Hans was forced to return with his friend to the pier, while the other emigrants thronged on board. He was nearly at his wits’ end, when it suddenly occurred to him to put Little Hans in a bag and smuggle him on board as baggage. This was a lucky thought. Little Hans was quite heavy, to be sure, but he seemed to comprehend the situation perfectly, and kept as still as a mouse in his bag while Big Hans, with the assistance of a benevolent fellow-passenger, lugged him up the gang-plank. And when he emerged from his retirement some time after the steamer was well under way, none of the officers even thought of throwing the poor goat overboard; for Little Hans became a great favorite with both crew and passengers, although he played various mischievous pranks, in his quiet, unostentatious way, and ate some shirts which had been hung out to dry.

It was early in April when the two friends arrived in New York. They attracted considerable attention as they walked up Broadway together; and many people turned around to laugh at the little emigrant boy, in his queer Norwegian costume, who led a full-grown goat after him by a halter. The bootblacks and the newsboys pointed their fingers at them, and, when that had no effect, made faces at them, and pulled Big Hans by his short jacket and Little Hans by his short tail. Big Hans was quite frightened when he saw how many of them there were, but, perceiving that Little Hans was not in the least ruffled, he felt ashamed of himself, and took heart again. Thus they marched on for several blocks, while the crowd behind them grew more and more boisterous and importunate. Suddenly, one big boy, who seemed to be the leader of the gang, sprang forward with a yell and knocked off Big Hans’ hat, while all the rest cheered loudly; but just as he was turning around to enjoy his triumph, Little Hans turned around too, and gave him a bump from behind which sent him headlong into the gutter. Then, rising on his hind legs, Little Hans leaped forward again and again, and despatched the second and third boy in the same manner, whereupon all the rest ran away, helter-skelter, scattering through the side streets. It was all done in so quiet and gentlemanly a manner that not one of the grown-up spectators who had gathered on the sidewalk thought of interfering. Big Hans, however, who had intended to see something of the city before starting for the West, was so discouraged at the inhospitable reception the United States had given him, that he gave up his purpose, and returned disconsolately to Castle Garden. There he spent the rest of the day, and when the night came, he went to sleep on the floor, with his little bundle under his head; while Little Hans, who did not seem to be sleepy, lay down at his side, quietly munching a piece of pie which he had stolen from somebody’s luncheon-basket.

Early the next morning Big Hans was awakened by a gentle pulling at his coat-collar; and, looking up, he saw that it was Little Hans. He jumped up as quickly as he could, and he found that it was high time, for all the emigrants had formed into a sort of a procession and were filing through the gate on their way to the railway station. There were some seven or eight hundred of them – toil-worn, sad-faced men and women, and queer-looking children in all sorts of outlandish costumes. Big Hans and his friend ran to take their places at the very end of the procession, and just managed to slip through the gate before it was closed. At the railway station the boy exhibited his ticket which he had bought at the steamship office in Norway, and was just about to board the train, when the conductor cried out:

“Hold on, there! This is not a cattle-train! You can’t take your goat into the passenger-car!”

Big Hans did not quite comprehend what was said, but from the expression of the conductor’s voice and face, he surmised that there was some objection to his comrade.

“I think I have money enough to buy a ticket for Little Hans, too,” he said, in his innocent Norwegian way, as he pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket.

“I don’t want your money,” cried the conductor, who knew as little of Norwegian as Big Hans did of English.

“Get out of the way there with your billy-goat!”

And he hustled the boy roughly out of the way to make room for the other emigrants, who were thronging up to the platform.

“Well, then,” said Big Hans, “since they don’t want us on the train, Little Hans, we shall have to walk to Minnesota. And as this railroad is going that way, I suppose we shall get there if we follow the track.”

Little Hans seemed to think that this was a good plan; for, as soon as the train had steamed off, he started at a brisk rate along the track, so that his master had great difficulty in keeping up with him. For several hours they trudged along cheerfully, and both were in excellent spirits. Minnesota, Big Hans supposed, might, perhaps, be a day’s journey off, and if he walked fast he thought he would probably be there at nightfall. When once he was there, he did not doubt but that everybody would know his Uncle Peter. He was somewhat puzzled, however, when he came to a place where no less than three railroad tracks branched off in different directions; and, as there was no one to ask, he sat down patiently in the shade of a tree and determined to wait. Presently a man came along with a red flag.

“Perhaps you would kindly tell me if this is the way to Minnesota,” said Big Hans, taking off his cap and bowing politely to the man.

The man shook his head sullenly, but did not answer; he did not understand the boy’s language.

“And you don’t happen to know my uncle, Peter Volden?” essayed the boy, less confidently, making another respectful bow to the flagman.

“You are a queer loon of a chap,” grumbled the man; “but if you don’t jump off the track with your goat, the train will run over both of you.”

He had hardly spoken, when the train was seen rounding the curve, and the boy had just time to pull Little Hans over into the ditch when the locomotive came thundering along, sending out volumes of black smoke, which scattered slowly in the warm air, making the sunlight for awhile seem gray and dingy. Big Hans was almost stunned, but picked himself up, with a little fainter heart than before, perhaps; but whispering a snatch of a prayer which his mother had taught him, he seized Little Hans by the halter, and started once more upon his weary way after the train.

“Minnesota must be a great way off, I am afraid,” he said, addressing himself, as was his wont, to his companion; “but if we keep on walking, it seems to me we must, in the end, get there; or, what do you think, Little Hans?”

Little Hans did not choose to say what he thought, just then, for his attention had been called to some tender grass at the roadside which he knew tasted very sweet. Big Hans was then reminded that he, too, was hungry, and he sat down on a stone and ate a piece of bread which he had brought with him from Castle Garden. The sun rose higher in the sky and the heat grew more and more oppressive. Still the emigrant boy trudged on patiently. Whenever he came to a station he stopped, and read the sign, and shook his head sadly when he saw some unfamiliar name.

“Not Minnesota yet, Little Hans,” he sighed; “I am afraid we shall have to take lodgings somewhere for the night. I am so footsore and tired.”

It was then about six o’clock in the evening, and the two friends had walked about twenty miles. At the next station they met a hand-organ man, who was sitting on a truck, feeding his monkey.

Big Hans, who had never seen so funny an animal before, was greatly delighted. He went close up to the man, and put out his hand cautiously to touch the monkey.

“Are you going to Minnesota, too?” he asked, in a tone of great friendliness; “if so, we might bear each other company. I like that hairy little fellow of yours very much.”

The hand-organ man, who, like most men of his calling, was an Italian, shook his head, and the monkey shook his head, too, as if to say, “All that may be very fine, but I don’t understand it.”

The boy, however, was too full of delight to notice whether he was understood or not; and when the monkey took off his little red hat and offered to shake hands with him, he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. He seemed to have entirely forgotten Little Hans, who was standing by, glowering at the monkey with a look which was by no means friendly. The fact was, Little Hans had never been accustomed to any rival in his master’s affection, and he didn’t enjoy in the least the latter’s interest in the monkey. He kept his jealousy to himself, however, as long as he could; but when Big Hans, after having giving ten cents to the organ-man, took the monkey on his lap and patted and stroked it, Little Hans’ heart was ready to burst. He could not endure seeing his affections so cruelly trifled with. Bending his head and rising on his hind legs, he darted forward and gave his rival a knock on the head that sent him tumbling in a heap at Big Hans’ feet. The Italian jumped up with a terrible shout and seized his treasure in his arms. The monkey made an effort to open its eyes, gave a little shiver, and – was dead. The boy stood staring in mute despair at the tiny stiffened body; he felt like a murderer. Hardly knowing what he did, he seized Little Hans’ halter; but in the same moment the enraged owner of the monkey rushed at the goat with the butt end of his whip uplifted. Little Hans, who was dauntless as ever, dexterously dodged the blow, but the instant his antagonist had turned to vent his wrath upon his master, he gave him an impetus from behind which sent him headlong out upon the railroad track. A crowd of men and boys (of the class who always lounge about railroad stations) had now collected to see the fight, and goaded both combatants on with their jeering cries. The Italian, who was maddened with anger, had just picked himself up, and was plunging forward for a second attack upon Little Hans, when Big Hans, seeing the danger, flung himself over his friend’s back, clasping his arms about his neck. The loaded end of the whip struck Big Hans in the back of the head; without a sound, the boy fell senseless upon the track.

Then a policeman arrived, and Little Hans, the Italian, and the insensible boy were taken to the police-station. A doctor was summoned, and he declared that Big Hans’ wound was very dangerous, and that he must be taken to the hospital. And there the emigrant boy lay for six weeks, hovering between life and death; but when, at the end of that time, he was permitted to go out, he heard with dread that he was to testify at the Italian’s trial. A Norwegian interpreter was easily found, and when Hans told his simple story to the judge, there were many wet eyes in the court-room. And he himself cried, too, for he thought that Little Hans was lost. But just as he had finished his story, he heard a loud “Ba-a-a” in his ear; he jumped down from the witness-stand and flung his arms about Little Hans’ neck and laughed and cried as if he had lost his wits.

It is safe to say that such a scene had never before been witnessed in an American court-room.

The next day Big Hans and Little Hans were both sent by rail, at the expense of some kind-hearted citizens, to their uncle in Minnesota. And it was there I made their acquaintance.

A NEW WINTER SPORT

It is a curious fact that so useful an article as the Norwegian skees has not been more generally introduced in the United States. In some of the Western States, notably in Wisconsin and Minnesota, where the Scandinavian population is large, the immigrants of Norse blood are beginning to teach Americans the use of their national snow-shoes, and in Canada there has been an attempt made (with what success I do not know) to make skee-running popular. But the subject has by no means received the consideration which it deserves, and I am confident that I shall earn the gratitude of the great army of boys if I can teach them how to enjoy this fascinating sport.

Let me first, then, describe a skee and tell you how to have it made. You take a piece of tough, straight-grained pine, from five to ten feet long, and cut it down until it is about the breadth of your foot, or, at most, an inch broader. There must be no knots in the wood, and the grain must run with tolerable regularity lengthwise from end to end.

If you cannot find a piece without a knot, then let the knot be as near the hind end as possible; but such a skee is not perfect, as it is apt to break if subjected to the strain of a “jump” or a “hollow” in a swift run. The thickness of the skee should be about an inch or an inch and one-half in the middle, and it should gradually grow thinner toward each end. Cut the forward end into a point – not abruptly, but with a gradual curve, as shown in the drawings. Pierce the middle latitudinally with a hole, about half an inch in height and an inch or (if required) more in width; then bend the forward pointed end by means of five sticks, placed as the drawing indicates, and let the skee remain in this position for four or five days, until its bend has become permanent, and it will no longer, on the removal of the sticks, resume the straight line. Before doing this, however, it would be well to plane the under side of the skee carefully and then polish and sand-paper it, until it is as smooth as a mirror. It is, of course, of prime importance to diminish as much as possible the friction in running and to make the skee glide easily over the surface of the snow, and the Norwegians use for this purpose soft-soap, which they rub upon the under side of the skee, and which, I am told, has also a tendency to make the wood tougher. In fact, too much care cannot be exercised in this respect, as the excellence of the skees, when finished, depends primarily upon the combined toughness and lightness of the wood. Common pine will not do; for although, when well seasoned, it is light enough, it is rarely strong enough to bear the required strain. The tree known to Norwegians as the fir (Sylvestris pinus), which has long, flexible needles, hanging in tassels (not evenly distributed along the branch, as in the spruce), is most commonly used, as it is tough and pitchy, but becomes light in weight, without losing its strength, when it is well seasoned and dried. Any other strong and straight-grained wood might, perhaps, be used, but would, I think, be liable to the objection of being too heavy.

When the skee has been prepared as above described, there only remains to put a double band through the middle; the Norwegians make it of twisted withes, and fit its size to the toe of the boot. If the band is too wide, so as to reach up on the instep, it is impossible to steer the skee, while if it is too narrow the foot is apt to slip out. Of these two withe-bands, one should stand up and the other lie down horizontally, so as to steady the foot and prevent it from sliding. A little knob, just in front of the heel, might serve a similar purpose. Leather, or any other substance which is apt to stretch when getting wet, will not do for bands, although undoubtedly something might be contrived which might be even preferable to withes. I am only describing the skees as they are used in Norway – not as they might be improved in America. In the West, I am told, a good substitute for the withe-band has been found in a kind of leather cap resembling the toe of a boot. As I have never myself tried this, I dare not express an opinion about its practicability; but as it is of the utmost importance that the runner should be able to free his foot easily, I would advise every boy who tries this cap to make perfectly sure that it does not prevent him from ridding himself of the skee at a moment’s notice. The chief difficulty that the beginner has to encounter is the tendency of the skees to “spread,” and the only thing for him to do in such a case, provided he is running too fast to trust to his ability to get them parallel again, is to jump out of the bands and let the skees go. Let him take care to throw himself backward, breaking his fall by means of the staff, and in the soft snow he will sustain no injury. Whenever an accident occurs in skee-running, it can usually be traced to undue tightness of the band, which may make it difficult to withdraw the feet instantly. A pair of skees kept at the rooms of the American Geographical Society, New York, are provided with a safeguard against “spreading” in the shape of a slight groove running longitudinally along the under side of each skee. I have seen skees provided with two such grooves, each about an inch from the edge and meeting near the forward point.

There has, of course, to be one skee for each foot, and the second is an exact duplicate of the first. The upper sides of both are usually decorated, either in colors or with rude carvings; the forward ends are usually painted for about a foot, either in black or red.

Now, the reader will ask: “What advantage does this kind of snow-shoes offer over the ordinary Indian ones, which are in common use in the Western and Northern States?” Having tried both, I think I may confidently answer that the skees are superior, both in speed and convenience; and, moreover, they effect a great saving of strength. The force which, with the American snow-shoes, is expended in lifting the feet, is with the skees applied only as a propeller, for the skee glides, and is never lifted; and on level ground the resistance of the body in motion impels the skee-runner with each forward stride several feet beyond the length of his step. If he is going down-hill, his effort will naturally be to diminish rather than to increase his speed, and he carries for this purpose a strong but light staff about six feet long, upon which he may lean more or less heavily, and thereby retard the rapidity of his progress. The best skee-runners, however, take great pride in dispensing with the staff, and one often sees them in Norway rushing down the steepest hill-sides with incredible speed, with a whirling cloud of snow following in their track.

Although this may be a very fine and inspiriting sight, I should not recommend beginners to be too hasty in throwing away the staff, as it is only by means of it that they are able to guide their course down over the snowy slope, just as a ship is steered by its rudder. If you wish to steer toward the right, you press your staff down into the snow on your right side, while a similar manœuvre on your left side will bend your course in that direction. If you wish to test your skees when they are finished, put your feet into the bands, and let someone take hold of the two front ends and slowly raise them while you are standing in the bands. If they bear your weight, they are regarded as safe, and will not be likely to break in critical moments. In conclusion, let me add that the length and thickness of the skees, as here described, are not invariable, but must vary in accordance with the size of the boy who wishes to use them. Five feet is regarded as the minimum length, and would suit a boy from twelve to fourteen years old, while a grown-up man might safely make them twice that length.

In Norway, where the woods are pathless in winter, and where heavy snows continually fall from the middle of October until the middle of April, it is easily seen how essential, nay indispensable, the skees must be to hunters, trappers, and lumber-men, who have to depend upon the forests for their livelihood. Therefore, one of the first accomplishments which the Norwegian boy learns, as soon as he is old enough to find his way through the parish alone, is the use of these national snow-shoes. If he wakes up one fine winter morning and sees the huge snow-banks blockading doors and windows, and a white, glittering surface extending for miles as far as his eye can reach, he gives a shout of delight, buttons his thick woollen jacket up to his chin, pulls the fur borders of his cap down over his ears, and then, having cleared a narrow path between the dwelling-house and the cow-stables, makes haste to jump into his skees. If it is cold (as it usually is) and the snow accordingly dry and crisp, he knows that it will be a splendid day for skee-running. If, on the contrary, the snow is wet and heavy, it is apt to stick in clots to the skees, and then the sport is attended with difficulties which are apt to spoil the amusement. We will take it for granted, however, that there are no indications of a thaw, and we will accompany the Norse boy on his excursions over the snowy fields and through the dense pine-woods, in which he and his father spend their days in toil, not untempered with pleasure.

“Now, quick, Ola, my lad!” cries his father to him; “fetch the axe from the wood-shed and bring me my gun from the corner behind the clock, and we will see what luck we have had with the fox-traps and the snares up in the birch-glen.”

And Ola has no need of being asked twice to attend to such duties. His mother, in the meanwhile, has put up a luncheon, consisting of cold smoked ham and bread and butter, in a gayly painted wooden box, which Ola slings across his shoulder, while Nils, his father, sticks the axe into his girdle, and with his gun in one hand and his skee-staff in the other, emerges into the bright winter morning. They then climb up the steep snow-banks, place their skees upon the level surface, and put their feet into the bands. Nils gives a tremendous push with his staff and away he flies down the steep hill-side, while his little son, following close behind him, gives an Indian war-whoop, and swings his staff about his head to show how little he needs it. Whew, how fast he goes! How the cold wind sings in his ears; how the snow whirls about him, filling his eyes and ears and silvering the loose locks about his temples, until he looks like a hoary little gnome who has just stepped out from the mountain-side! But he is well used to snow and cold, and he does not mind it a bit.