nder the coverlet to hide herself
from her sister. Susanna then would pretend to seek for the little one;
but she needed only to say with an anxious voice, "where--ah, where is
my little Hulda?" in order to decoy forth the head of the little one, to
see her arms stretched out, and to hear her say, "here I am, Sanna! here
is thy little Hulda!" And she had then her little darling in her arms,
and pressed her to her heart; then was Susanna happy, and forgot all the
cares and the fatigues of the day.

At the remembrance of these hours Susanna's tears often flowed, and
prevented her remarking the tearful glow which sometimes lit up Harald's
eyes.

Harald, however, had also his relations; not, it is true, of so tender a
nature, but yet interesting enough to lay claim to all Susanna's
attention, and to give us occasion to commence a new chapter.

EVENING HOURS.

I like the life, where rule and line appeareth,
In the mill's clapping and the hammer's blow;
I give to him the path who burthens beareth,
He worketh for a useful end I know.
But he, who for the klip-klap never heareth
The call of bells to feeling's holiday--
Hath but sham-life, mechanically moving,
Soul-less he is, unconscious and unloving.
Fly agile arrow, rattling in thy speeding
Over the busy emmet's roof of clay,
And waken spiritual life!

FOSS.

Harald related willingly, and related uncommonly well;--an entertaining
and a happy gift, which one often meets with in Norway among all
classes, both in men and women, and which they appear to have inherited
from their ancestors the Scalds; and besides this, he was well
acquainted with the natural wonders and legends of the mountain region.

And it is precisely in mountain regions where the most beautiful
blossoms of the people's poetry have sprung as if from her heart. The
ages of the Sagas and the heathens have left behind their giant traces.
River and mountain have their traditions of spectres and
transformations; giant "cauldrons" resound in the mountains, and
monumental stones are erected over warriors, who "buckled on their
belts," and fell in single combat. From Hallingdal went forth the
national Polska (the Halling), and only the Hardanger-fela (the
Hallingdal fiddle) can rightly give its wild, extraordinary melody. Most
beautiful are the flowers of remembrance which the Christian antiquity
exhibits, and the eternal snow upon the crowns of the ancient mountains
is not