A SUMMER NIGHT IN A NORWEGIAN FOREST The evening shadows now unfold Their curtain o'er the lonely wold ; The night wind sighs with dreary moan, And whispers over stock and stone. Tramp, Tramp ! the trolls come trooping, hark ! Across the moor to the deep woods dark. Geijer. When I was a boy about fourteen years old I came one Satur day afternoon in the middle of the summer to Upper Lyse, the last farm in Sorkedale. I had frequently walked or driven over the main road between Christiania and Ringerike, and I had now, after håving been at home on a short visit, tåken the road past Bokstad to Lyse for a change, with the intention of making a short cut through the north part of the Krog-wood. I found all the doors of the farmhouse wide open, but I looked in vain in the parlour, in the kitchen, and in the barn, for a human being whom I could ask for a drink and who could give me some direction about the road.
