The Modern Vikings

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.

In a few seconds father and son have reached the bottom of the valley, and before them is a steep incline, overgrown with leafless birch and elder forests. It is there where they have their snares, made of braided horse-hair; and as bait they use the red berries of the mountain ash, of which ptarmigan and thrushes are very fond. Now comes the test of their strength; but the snow is too deep and loose to wade through, and to climb a declivity on skees is by no means as easy as it is to slide down a smooth hill-side. They now have to plod along slowly, ascending in long zig-zag lines, pausing often to rest on their staves, and to wipe the perspiration from their foreheads. Half an hour’s climb brings them to the trapping-grounds. But there, indeed, their efforts are well rewarded.

“Oh, look, look, father!” cries the boy, ecstatically. “Oh, what a lot we have caught! Why, there are three dozen birds, as sure as there is one.”

His father smiles contentedly, but says nothing. He is too old a trapper to give way to his delight.

“There is enough to buy you a new coat for Christmas, lad,” he says, chuckling; “and if we make many more such hauls, we may get enough to buy mother a silver brooch, too, to wear at church on Sundays.”

“No, buy mother’s brooch first, father,” protests the lad, a little hesitatingly (for it costs many boys an effort to be generous); “my coat will come along soon enough. Although, to be sure, my old one is pretty shabby,” he adds, with a regretful glance at his patched sleeves.

“Well, we will see, we will see,” responds Nils, pulling off his bear-skin mittens and gliding in among the trees in which the traps are set. “The good Lord, who looks after the poor man as well as the rich, may send us enough to attend to the wants of us all.”

He had opened his hunting-bag, and was loosening the snare from the neck of a poor strangled ptarmigan, when all of a sudden he heard a great flapping of wings, and, glancing down through the long colonnade of frost-silvered trees, saw a bird which had been caught by the leg, and was struggling desperately to escape from the snare.

“Poor silly thing!” he said, half-pityingly; “it is not worth a shot. Run down and dispatch it, Ola.”

“Oh, I don’t like to kill things, father,” cried the lad, who with a fascinated gaze was regarding the struggling ptarmigan. “When they hang themselves I don’t mind it so much; but it seems too wicked to wring the neck of that white, harmless bird. No, let me cut the snare with my knife and let it go.”

“All right; do as you like, lad,” answered the father, with gruff kindliness.

And with a delight which did his heart more honor than his head, Ola slid away on his skees toward the struggling bird, which, the moment he touched it, hung perfectly still, with its tongue stuck out, as if waiting for its death-blow.

“Kill me,” it seemed to say. “I am quite ready.”

But, instead of killing it, Ola took it gently in his hand, and stroked it caressingly while cutting the snare and disentangling its feet. How wildly its little heart beat with fright! And the moment his hold was relaxed, down it tumbled into the snow, ran a few steps, then took to its wings, dashed against a tree in sheer bewilderment, and shook down a shower of fine snow on its deliverer’s head. Ola felt quite heroic when he saw the bird’s delight, and thought how, perhaps, next summer (when it had changed its coat to brown) it would tell its little ones, nestling under its wings, of its hairbreadth escape from death, and of the kind-hearted youngster who had set it free instead of killing it.

While Ola was absorbed in these pleasant reflections, Nils, his father, had filled his hunting-bag with game and was counting his spoils.

“Now, quick, laddie,” he called out, cheerily. “Stir your stumps and bring me your bag of bait. Get the snares to rights and fix the berries, as you have seen me doing.”

Ola was very fond of this kind of work, and he pushed himself with his staff from tree to tree, and hung the tempting red berries in the little hoops and arches which were attached to the bark of the trees. He was in the midst of this labor, when suddenly he heard the report of his father’s gun, and, looking up, saw a fox making a great leap, then plunging headlong into the snow.

“Hello, Mr. Reynard,” remarked Nils, as he slid over toward the dead animal. “You overslept yourself this morning. You have stolen my game so long, now, that it was time I should get even with you. And yet, if the wind had been the other way, you would have caught the scent of me sooner than I should have caught yours. Now, sir, we are quits.”

“What a great, big, sleek fellow!” ejaculated Ola, stroking the fox’s fur and opening his mouth to examine his sharp, needle-pointed teeth.

“Yes,” replied Nils; “I have saved the rascal the trouble of hunting until he has grown fat and secure, and fond of his ease. I had a long score to settle with that old miscreant, who has been robbing my snares ever since last season. His skin is worth about three dollars.”

When the task of setting the snares in order had been completed, father and son glided lightly away under the huge, snow-laden trees to visit their traps, which were set further up the mountain. The sun was just peeping above the mountain-ridge, and the trees and the great snow-fields flashed and shone, as if oversown with numberless diamonds. Round about were the tracks of birds and beasts; the record of their little lives was traced there in the soft, downy snow, and could be read by everyone who had the eyes to read. Here were the tracks telling of the quiet pottering of the leman and the field-mouse, going in search of their stored provisions for breakfast, but rising to take a peep at the sun on the way. You could trace their long, translucent tunnels under the snow-crust, crossing each other in labyrinthine entanglements. Here Mr. Reynard’s graceful tail had lightly brushed over the snow, as he leaped to catch young Mrs. Partridge, who had just come out to scratch up her breakfast of frozen huckleberries, and here Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel (a very estimable couple) had partaken of their frugal repast of pine-cone seeds, the remains of which were still scattered on the snow. But far prettier were the imprints of their tiny feet, showing how they sat on their haunches, chattering amicably about the high cost of living, and of that grasping monopolist, Mr. Reynard, who had it all his own way in the woods, and had no more regard for life than a railroad president. This and much more, which I have not the time to tell you, did Ola and his father observe on their skee-excursion through the woods. And when, late in the afternoon, they turned their faces homeward, they had, besides the ptarmigan and the fox, a big capercailzie (or grouse) cock, and two hares. The twilight was already falling, for in the Norway winter it grows dark early in the afternoon.

“Now, let us see, lad,” said Ola’s father, regarding his son with a strange, dubious glance, “if you have got Norse blood in your veins. We don’t want to go home the way we came, or we should scarcely reach the house before midnight. But if you dare risk your neck with your father, we will take the western track down the bare mountain-side. It takes brisk and stout legs to stand in that track, my lad, and I won’t urge you, if you are afraid.”

“I guess I can go where you can, father,” retorted the boy, proudly. “Anyway, my neck isn’t half so valuable as yours.”

“Spoken like a man!” said the father, in a voice of deep satisfaction. “Now for it, lad! Make yourself ready. Strap the hunting-bag close under your girdle, or you will lose it. Test your staff to make sure that it will hold, for if it breaks you are gone. Be sure you don’t take my track. You are a fine chap and a brave one.”

Ola followed his father’s directions closely, and stood with loudly palpitating heart ready for the start. Before him lay the long, smooth slope of the mountain, showing only here and there soft undulations of surface, where a log or a fence lay deeply buried under the snow. On both sides the black pine-forest stood, tall and grave. If he should miss his footing, or his skees be crossed or run apart, very likely he might just as well order his epitaph. If it had not been his father who had challenged him, he would have much preferred to take the circuitous route down into the valley. But now he was in for it, and there was no time for retreating.