al one is
that it rains every day, or nearly every day.

To reach the Hardanger from Bergen, and to go from one end of the fjord
to the other, you take a passage in one of the comfortable little
local steamers, and you begin your journey early in the morning. It
is a very pleasant way of travelling, as you sit on deck all day and
enjoy the scenery, and only go down to the saloon at meal-times. If
you do not wish to go all the way to the very end of the fjord,
there are numbers of pretty little places where you can break your
journey. But if you like you can travel throughout the day and finish
up late at night at Odda, or at Vik-i-Eidfjord, each of which is at
the head of a branch of the Hardanger Fjord.

Let us take our tickets right through to Eidfjord, make a good long
day of it, and see what there is to be seen. For some little time
after leaving the harbour we see nothing of great interest, only a few
graceful-looking barges in full sail, reminding us of the pictures of
the old Viking ships, and flocks of seagulls fluttering and screaming
round the stern of our boat. Then the steamer begins to pick its way
through the scattered islands, some of which are mere barren granite
rocks, others partially cultivated, and with neat little farmsteads
lying snug in the valleys.

So we go on for an hour or two, occasionally stopping off a small group
of farms, to land, perhaps, a farmer returning from the Bergen market,
or a girl coming home from her situation in the town. Presently we
come alongside a pier under an overhanging cliff, and we see the
name of the place written up on a board, just like the name of a
railway-station. This is Godoesund, a favourite holiday haunt of
the Bergen people. It is not a town or even a village, but just a
chalet-like hotel of two or three buildings, standing on the side
of a fir-clad hill, in the midst of a fairyland of creeks and wooded
islets--as pretty a spot as one could wish to see.

Now we are nearing the Hardanger Fjord; we pass through the narrow
straits known as the Loeksund, and we enter the fjord. Glorious and
ever-changing views open out before us, as hour after hour the steamer
passes from one small station to another, dropping a mail-bag, and
perhaps a passenger or two. We pass farms lying close to the shore,
the wooden houses being in many cases painted red or white, and thus
forming a brilliant contrast to the blue-black mountains and dark
green forests which rise up be