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112
SKAGEN.
Chap. XXXVI.
divers gaudy colours. The “ huus fru ” enters quickly,
bids us welcome, placing on the table not “ butter in a
lordly dish,” as they do in Norway—she brings a jug
of fresh milk, and bids us drink. But with the
furniture and wooden settles ends the likeness to dirty
Brittany: here all is of a Dutch cleanliness. The
women in their queer frilled caps and good stout dresses,
clean and neat, knit as fast as they talk, and as
their tongues run glibly the stocking advances quickly.
We sit down to write our journals, and then an aged
peasant in gray homespun, very white hair, and
spectacles on nose, enters and wishes us good day—“Four
people writing at the same time; we don’t often see
such a sight in these parts.” He then examines our
calligraphy—“ You write the best,” he says to one;
“ you next; you next; and you the worst,” to me—
a most unjust remark, and a proof of bad taste on his
part. Had the ladies been ever at school ? he was the
schoolmaster: ’if we liked we might come across the
road and write in his school-house at the desks—
a tempting offer we could not accept, as the horses
were already harnessed. The farmer himself
accompanies us this time, to the great disgust of his son,
who was looking forward to a lark at Frederikshavn, I
dare say. The boy looks sorrowful, but father (a
splendid fellow, like Rollo; one wonders how any horse
can bear his tall athletic frame) is inexorable. We
start; half-way exchange our spirited chesnuts, too
young to be hackneyed about, for a pair of wicked-eyed
ponies, in fur collars and blinkers (de la fourrure apres
Paques, quel pays!), and arrive towards eleven at
Frederikshavn.
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