Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - Introduction. We Travel.
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becomes stunted. Rest thee between our
extended wings: we fly up to Sulitelma, the
island’s eye, as the mountain is called; we fly
from the vernal green valley, up over the
snow-drifts, to the mountain’s top, whence thou
canst see the North Sea, on yonder side of
Norway.
"We fly to Jemteland, where the rocky
mountains are high and blue; where the Foss
roars and rushes; where the torches are lighted
as budstikke,[1] to announce that the ferryman
is expected. Up to the deep, cold-running
waters, where the midsummer sun does not
set; where the rosy hue of eve is that of
morn."
That is the birds’ song. Shall we lay it to
heart? Shall we accompany them? – at least
a part of the way. We will not sit upon the
stork’s back, or between the swans’ wings. We
will go forward with steam, and with horses –
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