There is something mysterious about a woman's fancy-work. It seems
to have all the soothing charm of the tobacco-plant, without its
inconveniences. Just to see her tranquillity, while she relaxes her
mind and busies her fingers with a bit of tatting or embroidery or
crochet, gives me a sense of being domesticated, a "homey" feeling,
anywhere in the wide world.
If you ever go to Norway, you must be sure to see the Loenvand. You
can set out from the comfortable hotel at Faleide, go up the Indvik
Fjord in a rowboat, cross over a two-mile hill on foot or by
carriage, spend a happy day on the lake, and return to your inn in
time for a late supper. The lake is perhaps the most beautiful in
Norway. Long and narrow, it lies like a priceless emerald of palest
green, hidden and guarded by jealous mountains. It is fed by huge
glaciers, which hang over the shoulders of the hills like ragged
cloaks of ice.
As we row along the shore, trolling in vain for the trout that live
in the ice-cold water, fragments of the tattered cloth-of-silver far
above us, on the opposite side, are loosened by the touch of the
summer sun, and fall from the precipice. They drift downward, at
first, as noiselessly as thistledowns; then they strike the rocks
and come crashing towards the lake with the hollow roar of an
avalanche.
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