art, sit and dream upon some mossy bank,

"In close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
And hide him from day's garish noon."

Thus you often come upon an English sportsman waiting for a nibble.

[Illustration: WAITING FOR A NIBBLE.]

The food of the peasants consists principally of black bread, milk,
butter, and cheese. Meat is too expensive for very general use, though
at certain seasons of the year they indulge in it once or twice a
week. Coffee is a luxury to which they are much addicted. Even the
poorest classes strain a point to indulge in this favorite narcotic,
and in no part of Norway did I fail to get a good cup of coffee. It is
a very curious fact that the best coffee to be had at the most
fashionable hotels on the Continent of Europe--always excepting
Paris--is inferior to that furnished to the traveler at the commonest
station-house in Norway. This is indeed one of the luxuries of a tour
through this part of Scandinavia. The cream is rich and pure, and it
is a rare treat to get a large bowlful of it for breakfast, with as
much milk as you please, and no limit to bread and butter. Your
appetite is not measured by infinitesimal bits and scraps as in
Germany. A good wholesome meal is spread before you in the genuine
backwoods style, and you may eat as much as you please, which is a
rare luxury to one who has been stinted and starved at the hotels on
the Continent. I remember, at one station beyond the Dovre Fjeld,
Bennett's Hand-book says, "Few rooms, but food supplied in first-rate
style when Miss Marit is at home. She will be much offended if you do
not prove that you have a good appetite." On my arrival at this place,
not wishing to offend Miss Marit--for whom I entertained the highest
respect in consequence of her hospitable reputation--I called for
every thing I could think of, and when it was placed upon the table
by that accomplished young lady (a very pleasant, pretty young woman,
by-the-way), fell to work and made it vanish at a most astonishing
rate. Miss Marit stood by approvingly. During a pause in my heavy
labors I called the attention of this estimable person to her own name
in the printed pamphlet, at which she blushed and looked somewhat
confused. Possibly there might be a mistake about it.

"Your name is Miss Marit?" I asked, very politely.

"Ja."

"And this is Miss Marit in print?"

"Ja."

She took the book and tried to read it.

"Nikka Forstoe!"-