nnot read the stories of your western men, the
writings of Bret Harte, or Colonel John Hay, for instance, without
feeling at every turn that there are the old Norse alive again, beyond
the very ocean which they first crossed, 850 years ago.

Let me try to prove my point, and end with a story, as I began with one.

It is just 30 years before the Norman conquest of England, the evening of
the battle of Sticklestead. St. Olaf's corpse is still lying unburied on
the hillside. The reforming and Christian king has fallen in the attempt
to force Christianity and despotism on the Conservative and half-heathen
party--the free bonders or yeoman-farmers of Norway. Thormod, his
poet,--the man, as his name means, of thunder mood--who has been standing
in the ranks, at last has an arrow in his left side. He breaks off the
shaft, and thus sore wounded goes up, when all is lost, to a farm where
is a great barn full of wounded. One Kimbe comes, a man out of the
opposite or bonder part. 'There is great howling and screaming in
there,' he says. 'King Olaf's men fought bravely enough: but it is a
shame brisk young lads cannot bear their wounds. On what side wert thou
in the fight?' 'On the best side,' says the beaten Thormod. Kimbe sees
that Thormod has a gold bracelet on his arm. 'Thou art surely a king's
man. Give me thy gold ring and I will hide thee, ere the bonders kill
thee.'

Thormod said, 'Take it, if thou canst get it. I have lost that which is
worth more;' and he stretched out his left hand, and Kimbe tried to take
it. But Thormod, swinging his sword, cut off his hand; and it is said
Kimbe behaved no better over his wound than those he had been blaming.

Then Thormod went into the barn; and after he had sung his song there in
praise of his dead king, he went into an inner room, where was a fire,
and water warming, and a handsome girl binding up men's wounds. And he
sat down by the door; and one said to him 'Why art thou so dead pale?
Why dost thou not call for the leech?' Then sung Thormod--

I am not blooming; and the fair
And slender maiden loves to care
For blooming youths. Few care for me,
With Fenri's gold meal I can't fee;

and so forth, improvising after the old Norse fashion.

Then Thormod got up and went to the fire, and stood and warmed himself.
And the nurse-girl said to him, 'Go out man, and bring some of the
split-firewood which lies outside the door.' He went out and brought