busy crowd, and in a short time had woven wreaths and garlands and were decorating the striped pole. No loud words were spoken, scarcely a laugh broke the stillness of the night. It was a solemn, almost religious ceremony. From the red of the sunset sky a delicate rosy reflection touched the white sleeves and kerchiefs, and harmonized the harsh colors of the caps and aprons. Even the crudely painted architecture was modified into unobtrusive quality of tone by the soft light. One by one the busy workers ceased their labors as the ugly pole grew into graceful shape, and spread long arms with trailing wreaths and tufts of flowers. The men watched on in silence, the tired children stopped their whispers and sat in ranks on the curb-stone. Now the cool draught of night only stirred the leaves at intervals, the mist settled low upon the meadows, and the weird forms melted away. A new light from some mysterious quarter gradually spread itself over the landscape, and even while scarcely The visible changed the general tone. The rosy reflection from the west lost its delicate quality, faded into a cooler light, then changed to the faintest tinge of gold. It was the charm of sunset changing to the beauty of sunrise. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, came the transformation. glory of the east rivalled awhile the splendor of the west, until the first rays of the sun shot across the sky, and it was day again. At that moment the pole was put in its place by the strong arms of a score of men, and fastened to the post where it stands the season long, shedding its dried leaves and grasses with every wind that blows. As if by magic the crowd disappeared and we were left alone. We were not so accustomed to the midnight sun that we could sleep in its full light as the natives do, and therefore, having no means of darkening the rooms at the inn, we found little difficulty in rising early enough on Midsummer-day to see the arrival of the country people. From the villages across the arm of the lake and down the river the peasants come to church in large boats constructed especially for this service. Although Leksand church stands on a bluff over the lake, there is no landingplace within a half-mile, and we hurried down the road through the pines, where we saw bright colors flitting among the foliage. We reached the foot of a little valley by the lake-side just as one of the church boats came in sight around the point. Others were drawn up on the shore, and the peasants were already mounting the steep path in silent procession. Across the shining surface of the lake came the regular sound of the oar splash and the swish of the bows through the water as the immense boat with its happy freight rushed onward to the land. As it drew nearer we could see a bare-headed old man sitting erect in the stern, steering with a square-bladed paddle held through a ring in the planksheer. In front of him several other THE MAY-POLE. oars. aged peasants sat on the thwarts, and between them and the rowers a score or more of children sat huddled together in the bottom of the boat, their little heads bobbing up over the gunwale, eager to get to land. Next to them sat the rowers, forty in number, pulling ten pairs of On the outside, next the rowlocks, were the strong young girls, each sturdily tugging at the oars held by the men, and the spaces between them were occupied by women perched on the gunwale. From the bow oars to the high pointed stem old men and women occupied the thwarts. Thus from stem to stern the slender, graceful craft was one living mass of human beings. The backs of the rowers fell and rose in perfect unison; the quick short strokes made the boat quiver and spring as if it would break in two. Within a rod or so of the shore the oars were lifted out of the water, seemingly by instinct, for we saw no one turn, heard no word of command, nor noticed any sign given by the old Palinurus. Crunching and grinding, the slender stem ran upon the shingle, the old people hobbled ashore, the rowers sprang out, and the children scrambled over one another down upon the rocks. A score of strong hands seized the boat by either gunwale, and walked it bodily up on the shore far above the water's edge, where it was propped upon an even keel, showering crystal drops from its tarry sides. Every movement had been the perfection of discipline no noise, no confusion, and no one out of place. Each woman, as she landed, held in her hand a small bundle wrapped up in pure white linen. Some sat on the bowlders along the shore, some sought a boudoir under the shade of the fir-trees, others stood beside the boat. All occupied themselves with their Sunday toilet. The girls, flushed and heated with rowing, tied fresh kerchiefs around their necks, and assisted one another to arrange the prim caps and adjust the brooches. Mothers unfolded their bundles, and found, besides the precious prayer-book-the heirloom of generations--the whitest of homespun linen to fold across the shoulders of the children, and the daintiest of caps to exchange for those they wore themselves. One after another the nursing babies were put in Sunday trim, and laid upon grass among the daisies. Then the larger children were caught, and every fold of their dress laid in order. The men, too, thought it not beneath the dignity of their sex to freshen up a bit before they marched away churchward. A whole fleet of boats now covered the narrow beach, stretching their huge dark forms from the water's edge even into the bushes which border the forest. Like the costumes of the people who man them, they have not changed in shape or in construction for many generations. They are from sixty to seventy feet in length, with a beam of less than one-tenth this extent, and a depth of about four feet. They are built of long broad planks, bolted to small elastic ribs, with the seams fastened at short intervals by staples clinched inside. The shell is quite flexible and at the same time very strong. The thwarts are placed loosely across, the spread of the sides being obviated by two or three iron rods hooked into eyebolts on the ribs. A heavy coat of pitch makes them quite water-tight, and gives the wood a rich mahogany color. Almost barbaric in form, with high stem and stern and graceful lines, they combine astonishing qualities of speed and carrying power. although rude in shape, are made on the same principle as those in use among the Oriental peoples, with a heavy enlarged handle to balance the length of blade. Every village on the lake has a number of these boats, which are built and kept in repair by groups of families, who contribute for this purpose. Well-used boats will last a generation or more, for they are only launched in the summer months, and even then only on Sundays and holidays. The oars, The irregular procession of church-goers filed along the sandy road to the village, and the boats were left quite deserted on the shore. The landscape was familiar and New England - like in character. Feathery pines and slender spruce-trees shaded the path until it came out between the grass and grain fields, where it wound along, bordered by daisies, and disappeared in the straggling outskirts of the village beyond. Even the gorgeous reds of the young girls' caps and the flashing yellows of the children's dresses could not interrupt the religious harmony induced by the time, the place, the tolling of the distant church bell, and the solemn bearing of the men and women. Neither could these vivid colors quite destroy the illusion that this was the counterpart of the church goings of the early settlers in New Eng-pointed hat, and clumsy shoes suggested, land, for the men as they stalked along in solemn black had a prim and Puritanical aspect. The long full-skirted coat, the if they did not accurately reproduce, the Puritan costume. But a man in black, carrying a bright yellow baby on one arm, and dragging with the other a red carriage holding two more children dressed in brilliant saffron woollen, occasionally disturbed the retrospective flow of the imagination, and brought us back to Sweden again. When we emerged from the side street and came out into the market-place we entered, as it were, from the wings upon an immense stage crowded with supernumeraries. The background was the screen of quivering foliage of the birch-trees, half hiding the quaint belfry and the spire of the church beyond. Down the avenue in the dense shade the peasants stood in rows and groups, counting three or four thousand souls, the men on one side, the women on the other. Among the men there was no variation of dress. A line of hats all alike; a line of short-waisted black coats; below, a line of white stockings and thick-soled shoes-a repetition of the same forms as if painted on the background with a stencil. On the women's side could be distinguished a scheme of costume invariably indicating the age or condition of the wearer. All children up to the age of nine years wear the birchdyed yellow dresses, the girls with red caps, and the boys with black. After this age the boys are clothed like miniature men, and the girls from this period up to their wedding day wear red caps covering all the hair, red bodices confining loose linen chemises closely to the waist, striped aprons, and black petticoats. When married they exchange the red woollen cap for one of white linen, and the striped apron for the plain yellow one. The widow wears over her cap a nun-like linen head-dress, and hides her bodice with a black jacket, and often covers her bright yellow apron by one of a more sombre hue. It was with some diffidence that we, almost the only modern characters on the scene, moved down the market-place between these armies of peasants to the church-yard, where white caps were gleaming among the trees, and there was a turmoil of red and yellow aprons. The evening before we had watched some female grave-diggers trimming the newly built mounds, and preparing the ground for the reception of a body. It is the custom of the peasants to keep their dead to be buried on Sundays or holidays, and the women evidently enjoy a good funeral, and look forward to a half-hour of sympathetic weeping as one of the sensational entertainments of the fête-day. A dense mass of people, mostly married women, was so closely packed around the open grave that the sturdy bearers of the bier could with difficulty find room to deposit the coffin. A mournful service followed, and weeping relatives and friends wailed long hymns in a minor key, impressive but wofully dismal. We were glad enough to escape to the church, which was crowded to overflowing, and we patiently stood through the long service. The church is a large nondescript edifice, said to have been planned and built by Russian prisoners captured by Charles XII., the origin of the parish dating probably from the evangelization of the Dalecarlians by the missionary Anskar in the ninth century. The present edifice was doubtless rebuilt on walls of an early construction, but it now resembles, both in general form and in the character of its turnipshaped tower, the churches of Eastern Europe. The lines of the roof are long and steep, and on either side immense ladders |