, the old
lady's voice: "Good gracious! Again! What a bore!"

There is also another invention, called phonograph, where the human
voice is reproduced, and can go on for ever being reproduced. I sang in
one through a horn, and they transposed this on a platina roll and
wound it off. Then they put it on another disk, and I heard my
voice--for the first time in my life. If that is my voice, I don't want
to hear it again! I could not believe that it could be so awful! A
high, squeaky, nasal sound; I was ashamed of it. And the faster the man
turned the crank the higher and squeakier the voice became. The
intonation--the pronunciation--I could recognize as my own, but the
_voice_!... Dear me!

[_Johan, desiring me to know his family, suggested that we spend the
Christmas holidays in Denmark, and we arrived safely after a slow and
very stormy voyage._]

"BJOERNEMOSE," _December 20, 1877_.

Dear Mother,--Denmark looks very friendly under its mantle of snow,
glistening with its varnish of ice. It is lovely weather. The sun
shines brightly, but it is as cold as Greenland. They tell me it is a
very mild winter. Compared with Alaska, it may be! The house, which is
heated only by large porcelain stoves, is particularly cold. These
stoves are filled with wood in the early morning, and when the wood is
burned out they shut the door and the porcelain tiles retain the
heat--still, the ladies all wear shawls over their shoulders and
shiver. I go and lean my back up against the huge white monument, but
this is not considered good form.

The Baltic Sea, which is at the foot of the snow-covered lawn, is
filled with floating ice. It must be lovely here in the summer, when
one can see the opposite shores of Thuro across the blue water.

My new family, taken singly and collectively, is delightful. I shall
tell you later about the dear, genial General--my father-in-law--the
kind mother, and the three devoted sisters. _Now_ I shall only
write--as I promised you--my _first_ impressions.

We live in a manner which is, I fancy, called "patriarchal," and which
reminds me continually of Frederika Bremer's book called _Home_. A
great many things in the way of food are new to me. For instance, there
is a soup made of beer, brown bread, and cream, and another made of the
insides of a goose, with its long neck and thin legs, boiled with
prunes, apples, and vinegar. Then rice porridge is served as soup and
mixed with hot beer, cinnamon, butter,