try traversed.

The ponies are generally about thirteen hands in height, good-tempered,
sure-footed, strong, and hardy, and think nothing of doing thirty or
forty miles a day, if given an occasional rest. Driving them requires
no great skill, and it is best to leave them as much as possible to
their own devices, since reins and bit have very little influence
over their movements. One may haul on to the reins for half an hour
without inducing the pony to pull up, but the magic sound of the
"burr-r-r" uttered by the _skydsgut_ will cause the little beast to
stop dead. And he will not go on again until he hears the peculiar
click of his master's tongue. So the stranger in the _carriole_
or _stolkjaerre_ will do well to hold the reins for the sake of
appearances, and allow his _skydsgut_ to do the rest.

One word of comfort to the adventurous driver: Do not be alarmed
if you notice that the harness is dropping to pieces. Your henchman
(up behind) will soon put matters right with some scraps of string
and a few bits of stick.

But the actual drive--how lovely it all is! Now you are passing up a
valley among the hayfields and orchards which border the river, and
by the roadside you find a profusion of wild flowers--great purple
gentians, blue harebells, yellow mountain globe flowers, and other
blossoms of varied colours. Butterflies there are also in abundance,
and, if you be an entomologist, your heart will rejoice at the sight of
such rare English insects as the Camberwell Beauty, the Northern Brown,
and others. Now you enter a dark pine-forest, to find yourself before
long emerging on to an open stretch of wild moorland; and so you cross
the col, and commence to drop down into another valley, narrow and
shut in by towering mountains. Waterfalls sparkle in the sun as they
tumble over the cliffs, and the still unmelted snow stands out white
and glistering on the distant hill-tops. The road swings from side to
side of the valley, crossing the torrent in its bottom by stout timber
bridges, and at last you reach the margin of the great lake, where
stands the neat little inn ready to provide you with your midday meal.

The organized tours, however short they be, always include a drive of
this description, and no Englishman would consider that he had visited
Norway unless he had driven through a part of the country. Even in
a week one can cover a deal of ground. One can go by steamer from
Bergen up the Hardanger Fjord to Eide