Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VII. Lapland
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and cheese, smoked reindeer’s tongue and
delicious cool water from the mountain brook in
Ristin’s mug. We lit our pipes and tried again
to understand each other’s speech.
“Do you know the name of that bird?” said I.
“Lahol,” smiled Ristin recognizing at once
the soft, flute-like whistle of the dotterel, who
shares their solitude with the Lapps and is much
beloved by them.
From a willow-bush came the wonderful song of
the bluethroat.
“Jilow! Jilow!” laughed Ristin.
The Lapps say that the bluethroat has a bell
in his throat and that he can sing one hundred
different songs. High over our heads hung a
black cross, riveted to the blue sky. It was the
royal eagle, surveying on motionless wings his
desolate kingdom. From the mountain lake came
the weird call of the loon.
“Ro, ro, raik,” repeated Ristin faithfully.
She said it meant: “fine weather to-day, fine
weather to-day!” When the loon said: “Var
luk, var luk, luk, luk,” it meant: “it is going to
rain again, it is going to rain again, again,”
Ristin informed me.
I lay there stretched out full length on the soft
moss, smoking my pipe and watching Ristin
carefully arranging her belongings in her laukos.
A small blue woollen shawl, an extra pair of neat,
little reindeer shoes, a pair of beautiful
embroidered red gloves to wear in church, a Bible.
Again I was struck with the refined shape of her
small hands, common to all Lapps. I asked her
what was in the little box cut out of a birch-root?
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