A Perilous Wooing.
From the Norwegian of Björnstjerne Björnson.
[Björnstjerne Björnson, the first and greatest writer which Norway has produced, was born at Quiken, in North Norway, on the 8th of December, 1832, his father being a Lutheran country pastor. At an early age he began to write, and a two years' residence at Copenhagen, to which city he removed at twenty-four, and where he studied the chief Danish writers, confirmed him in his resolve to create a literature in Norway. He was only twenty-six when he assumed the directorship of the theatre at Bergen, where he produced play after play of national importance. He wrote also several novels, of which "Arne" and "In Gods Way" are, perhaps, the best known to English readers. The following little story shows as well as any of his long romances his peculiar and original characteristics—his faithful yet poetic painting of the life and the wild scenery of the Norwegian Alps.]
"What do you want with me," asked Thor.
ROM the time that Aslang was quite grown up there was no longer any peace or quiet at Husaby. In fact, all the handsomest young fellows in the village did nothing but fight and quarrel night after night; and it was always worst on Saturday nights. Aslang's father, old Canute Husaby, never went to bed on those nights without keeping on at least his leather breeches, and laying a good stout birch stick on the bed beside him. "If I have such a pretty daughter," said old Canute, "I must know how to take care of her."
Thor Nesset was only the son of a poor cottager, and yet folks said that it was he who went oftenest to visit the farmer's daughter at Husaby. Of course old Canute was not pleased to hear this. He said it was not true; that, at any rate, he had never seen him there. Still they smiled and whispered to each other that if he only had thoroughly searched the hay-loft, whither Aslang had many an errand, he would have found Thor there.
Spring came, and Aslang went up the mountain with the cattle. And now, when the heat of the day hung over the valley, the rocks rose cool and clear through the sun's misty rays, the cow-bells tinkled, the shepherd's dog barked, Aslang sang her "jodel" songs, and blew the cow-horn, all the young men felt their hearts grow sore and heavy as they gazed upon her beauty. And on the first Saturday evening one after the other they crept up the hill. But they came down again quicker than they had gone up, for at the top stood a man, who kept guard, receiving each one who came up with such a warm reception that he all his life long remembered the words that
