sowed grain and planted potatoes and cultivated pasture land; the owner
here buys root vegetables from his cotters; he hasn't time to toil with
such things himself; there's a great deal of work in it. Oh, no, they
don't sow anything but green fodder for the stock here; Paul says it's not
worth-while. And in a way he's right. He's tried hiring enough men to run
the farm too, but it won't work. It's just in the spring season that the
tourists start coming, and then the men are constantly being interrupted
in their work on the farm to pilot tourists across the fjeld, or to do
this or that for the guests. And this goes on all through the short summer
months; for several years, they haven't even found the time to spread all
their manure. But the worst time is really the autumn, when the tourists
are all rushing to get home again, and it's quite impossible to do the
harvesting undisturbed. It's almost become a custom here now, my husband
says, for the cotters to get half the harvest of the farm's outlying
fields."

On my wondering at Mrs. Brede's knowledge of farming, she told me with a
shake of the head that she herself knew very little about it, and had all
her information from her husband. The fact was that every time these
cotters wanted to buy a fresh piece of land from Paul, her husband had to
give his consent. This was because of the mortgage, and this, too, was how
they had learned of these matters. Manufacturer Brede, as a matter of
fact, was most anxious to be released from his undertaking, but this was
by no means easy. It was with great apprehensions that he now regarded the
new automobile route.

Mrs. Brede was full of a maternal gentleness; she played with her little
girls, and seemed to enjoy an admirable balance of mind. One day, for
example, a goat came home with one of its hind legs broken, and all the
guests hurried out with brandy and lanolin and bandages for the wound; but