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A NIGHT IN A HAYBARN.
299
finding that all my endeavours were utter failures; for
after my experiences of rough lodging and nights out of
doors, I expected to find a bed on the new-mown hay
quite a luxury: but 1 found it most miserable.
Some people can sleep anywhere provided they are
warm, and on anything provided it is soft; for my own
part I can endure exposure, cold, and a hard resting-place,
but to be half buried in odorous material, and
perpetually tickled with straws, irritates me beyond endurance.
In order to understand what it is to sleep in such a place,
it must be remembered that the hay in this boggy
country is by no means composed exclusively of grass: about
half of it consists of dried leaves and stalks of various
wild plants, including a great proportion of thistles;
moreover, it is not carefully stacked and pressed down,
but pitched anyhow into these receptacles, and falls on
the floor and rises to the ceiling in a state of promiscuous
entanglement: it was about ten feet deep, and very loose,
in the region of my night’s burial-place. To tell how
the stalks and blades and thistle-leaves got down my
neck, and up my sleeves, and ferreted all over me, would
require a whole chapter. Nor were these representatives
of the vegetable kingdom my only tormentors, for the
entomology of all Scandinavia seemed to be illustrated
by the animated specimens that crawled all over me.
Among these the ants predominated. I have a great
respect for these little animals: their social institutions,
their industry and public spirit, always awaken in my
mind feelings of the deepest interest; but in spite of all
this, they tickle most horribly, for their very active legs
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