The distant mountains are practically the same as we saw them before, but now we get more of the effect of lonely grandeur. Nobody knows just how deep these waters may be, filling the narrow floor of the crooked valley. They are by no means always mirror-still as we see them now. Breezes often blow suddenly down from one of those heights, setting these poplar leaves to quivering on their stems, and covering the lake with ripples, and when the breeze stiffens into a summer squall it would be dangerous sport playing with a sailboat.
A Norwegian-American (Mr. Rasmus B. Anderson), who knew the famous violinist, Ole Bull, says:
“I once asked Ole Bull what had inspired his weird and original melodies. His answer was that from his earliest childhood he had taken the profoundest delight in Norway’s natural scenery. He grew eloquent in his poetic description of the grand and picturesque flower-clad valleys, filled with soughing groves and singing birds ; of the silver-crested mountains, from which the summer sun never departs ; of the melodious brooks, babbling streams and thundering rivers ; of the blinking lakes that sing their deep thoughts to starlit skies. . . . He spoke with especial emphasis of the eagerness with which he had devoured all myths, folk-tales, ballads and popular melodies ; and `all these things,’ he said, `have made my music.’
Shall we see how the shores look from the deck of the local steamer? The red 77 marks our place.