Cold it is, of course—bitterly cold, and always freezing hard; but it is a dry cold, and you hardly notice it. The streets are all one sheet of frozen snow, and great care is taken to keep them in good repair, gangs of road-menders being always at hand to fill up ruts by the simple process of picking up the hard snow of the roadway and then sprinkling a little water on the top, which at once produces a solid surface. No wheeled traffic is now to be seen; everything is on runners, from the carriage of the King to the doll’s perambulator. One no longer hears the rumble of the carrioles and stolkjÆrres over the rough flags, and the silence is broken only by the jingling of the sleigh-bells.

It is a strange sight indeed, this winter city, with its fur-clad men and women, and snow-covered houses and gardens, its keen, crisp air and pale blue sky. What a change from the fogs and dampness of our English climate!

Christiania is gay at this time of year, for it is the “season.” The members of the Storthing, with their wives and families, are in town for the session, and all sorts of gaieties are in progress. But all those Norwegians who have leisure to enjoy themselves turn their attentions to the real pleasures of winter—sleighing, ski-ing, tobogganing, and skating. The boys and girls are thoroughly happy. Directly school is over away they go, with their skates, snowshoes, or toboggans, to have a right good time in their different playgrounds. The hill on which the palace stands is given up to these little revellers, and in the evenings dozens of them of all ages may be seen descending the slopes face downwards on their kjÆlker, or racing through the trees with their long ski on their feet. The public gardens also are flooded to form a rink for the sole use of the infant skaters, and, judging by their rosy cheeks, the outdoor exercise in the cold, dry air makes them as healthy as any children in the world.

But grown-up people consider skating feeble sport in comparison with ski-ing, which may be called the national sport of Norway. Not so many years ago it was restricted to that country; but now the sport has become a favourite one in Sweden, Switzerland, and in other parts of Europe where the snow lies deep. Yet, to see perfection in the art, one must go to Norway—the real home of the great long wooden snowshoe. From earliest youth the Norwegians of both sexes are accustomed to go about the country in the long winter months on these strange contrivances, for without them it would be absolutely impossible to move off the roads. Children are taught in the schools to use them; soldiers wear them at winter drill and manoeuvres; farmers, milkmaids, cowboys, all may be seen daily in the country parts going from place to place on them, and so keen are the young rustic lads on becoming proficient ski-runners that all over Norway are to be found ski clubs, formed for the purpose of encouraging snowshoeing as a pastime, and for sending competitors to the great annual meeting at Christiania.

These snowshoe competitions are most interesting and exciting; and the pluck, endurance, and daring which they bring out are remarkable. They take place on the hills just outside Christiania, and are attended by every man, woman, and child who can reach the spot. On the first day is held the long-distance race, and on the second the jumping competition, only winners in the former being allowed to enter for the latter.

Every English boy knows what it is to take part in a cross-country run of half a dozen miles. The Norwegian test is something more formidable—about fifteen miles of rough, mountainous country, over hill and dale, through forests, and as often as not down rocky precipices, all half buried in snow; in the runner’s hand a staff, and on his feet his ski, six or eight feet long. The course is carefully marked out beforehand by tying pieces of coloured rag to branches and rocks, and it is a point-to-point race throughout. Every district sends its champion, and there are frequently as many as eighty competitors, who are started one after another at intervals of a minute. Except, however, for expert ski-runners who can follow the course, it is not an interesting race to watch, as one only sees the start or the finish, to learn subsequently who covered the distance in the shortest time.

The appearance of the men as they come in is sufficient proof of the terrific nature of the test. So bathed in perspiration are they that they might have been running a “Marathon” race in the height of summer; and so parched are their tongues that they can scarcely speak. Lucky the skier who, during his run, chances on an unfrozen forest pool whereat he may quench his thirst by deep draughts of what the Norwegian terms “goosewine”—our “Adam’s ale.”

But the second day’s sport is of a different kind; the whole thing is visible to the spectators, who from first to last are subjected to thrills of wild excitement. The ground selected for the contest is the side of a somewhat steep hill, and the snow must be in proper condition—deep, and not having a hard-frozen crust. The competitors assemble on the summit, and at the bottom of the slope—perhaps a hundred yards from the starting-point—is a large enclosed space, around which stand the spectators. Half-way down the hillside, a horizontal platform, well covered with hard snow, has been built out, so as to form the “taking-off” point for the long jump; and close by it is the box for the judges and committee. The soldiers on ski, keeping the ground, give the signal that all is ready; in another second a bugle-call resounds from the top of the hill; and the first man has started.

Down the slope he comes at the top of his speed, his fists clenched, and determination in his face. Gathering himself together as he nears the “take-off,” he bends slightly on his ski, and, with a frantic bound, flies forward into space. For an instant a breathless silence falls on the crowd, and then, as the ski-lÖber lands at the bottom, and struggles in vain to keep his feet, cheers mingled with laughter fill the air. Number 2 is no more successful than his predecessor; but Number 3 lands on both feet with much grace, continues his way on level ground, and, wheeling round, receives the well-merited applause of the onlookers. Others follow in quick succession, some making brilliant leaps, some having awkward spills; yet one and all racing down to the platform with almost abandoned recklessness. What with the delay caused by accidents, and the time taken in measuring the successful jumps, the contest occupies some hours. Then the judges declare the names of the prize-winners, together with the length of each man’s leap; and, prodigious as it may seem, it is no unusual thing for the champion to accomplish 100 feet, measured on the slope from the “take-off” to the landing-point.

Such are some of the winter sports of Norway. Can anyone wonder that the men who enter into them with so great a zest have earned for themselves the name of “Hardy Norsemen”? Can anyone wonder that Dr. Nansen, in his younger days the champion ski-lÖber at one of these great meetings, should have defeated all others in the race for the North Pole?