Chatterbox, 1906 Part 80

'I don't know whether any of you fellows have tried snowshoeing,' began Bobby on the following evening, when it was his turn to spin a yarn, '_ski_-running, as they call it in Norway?'

'Yes,' said Ralph, 'I have. Why?'

'Well, I was thinking of telling you how I and another fellow, Billy Onslow, took it up one winter when I was in Russia. We--at least, I--had read about the compet.i.tions at Holmen Kollen, near Christiania, when the Nors.e.m.e.n have their annual fling for the great "ski-hop." Reading of this had caused me to have a great ambition to be able to shoot hills and precipices upon snowshoes as the Norse fellows do, and I persuaded Billy to be ambitious also, and to practise the things with me near St.

Petersburg, where they use the same kind of snowshoes or _ski_'

(p.r.o.nounced _shee_).

My cousin Tom, being an expert snowshoe-runner, accompanied us to the country place where we should find slopes of every grade of difficulty, in order to show and explain how the thing was done.

'You may fall about a bit,' he said, 'at first, but you will soon learn to glide down a moderately steep hill-side safely enough. You won't be qualified to compete at Christiania this year though, Bobby, for it's an art that requires much practice before perfection is attained. One cannot do anything well that is worth doing,' added Tom, 'without a lot of trouble; that is a lesson one is constantly learning through life!'

Well, we found this true enough, for the _ski_-running gave us a lot of trouble, as Tom had hinted.

The shoes are peculiar-looking things. They are about six or seven feet in length, some four inches in width, and are made of thin, strong, seasoned wood, half an inch thick, running to a point in front, the 'toes' turning up, of course, for otherwise they would catch in the snow. One stands in the middle, inserting the foot in a strap, which closes round the instep. Then one slides along the surface of the snow in the best way one can--which, at first, is a very awkward way indeed.

We drove down to a shooting-lodge, near Lavrik, and then, having lunched, we called for snowshoes and strapped ourselves into them.

'Now then,' said experienced Tom, 'we will just walk off towards the gully, where there are some nice easy slopes for you to begin upon.'

With these words Tom glided away upon his shoes; it looked the easiest and most delightful thing in the world. Tom moved forward like a bird upon the wing, slid a dozen yards away, turned, and came back to us.

'Lovely, isn't it?' he said. 'Come along, just skate forward; keep the front part of the _ski_ well apart, or the points will cross, and you will come to a sudden stop.'

Billy made a few awkward slides forward; one of his shoes went south-east and the other south-west; one of his feet left the earth as though it would soar heavenwards. Billy sat down with some violence.

'Here, I say, that won't do,' he observed.

'What made the things behave like that?' I said.

'Keep the ends apart'--Tom laughed--'but not so far as that; point them both the same way, but keep them six inches or so from one another.'

Billy got up and tried again. The points of his shoes now rushed towards one another like old friends who meet after long parting. Billy's progress was instantly checked, and he sprawled forward on his face in the most ignominious fashion.

Billy scrambled up awkwardly, for one of his _ski would_ stand on the other and keep it down. He fell three times before he finally stood erect.

'You said it was so easy,' he said, reproachfully. 'Stop laughing, Bobby,' he added, 'and try yourself.'

I did so, profiting by Billy's experience, and slid carefully forward.

Ten yards I covered in safety, then a small birch-tree suddenly rose up before me. I knew no way of giving it the go-by. I tried to guide myself to one side of it, and, lo! one snowshoe went to the right of the tree, the other to the left, and I found myself jammed against the trunk.

'I say, help!' I cried. 'Cut down the tree, or take me out of the snowshoes. I can't move!'

Tom shrieked with laughter; so did Billy, who ought to have known better.

'Try to back away from the tree,' Tom suggested.

I endeavoured to do so. This time the heel ends of the shoes crossed, and I sat down very suddenly, while Tom and Billy laughed even more rudely than before. I began to realise that the art of _ski_-running was not a perfectly easy one even upon the level. What would it be, I wondered, when we reached the hill-side?

Though the gentle slopes chosen by Tom for our first lesson were distant but a short mile from the lodge, I think we took at least three-quarters of an hour to reach the place. The pointed ends of our snowshoes--Billy's and mine--went exactly where they pleased. They behaved like ill-natured animated things, and did us all the harm they could. This was not much, of course, except to make us appear very ridiculous; but Billy and I soon got tired of laughing at one another, so that it did not matter after a while. But when we reached the hill-side, and made our first efforts to 'shoot' the slope, the real fun began.

Bill took the first attempt. Tom had shown us how it was to be done. He had poised himself upon the top of the hill like a bird about to take wing. He had allowed his _ski_ to tip over the edge, and in an instant he was in full flight, going at nearly thirty miles an hour over the slippery, even surface of the snow, bending slightly forward, keeping his two shoes straight as arrows, and heading, true as a bullet, for the point which he had fixed upon.

'How easy it looks,' said Billy, 'and how delicious it must feel to go through the air like that, eh?'

I answered nothing, for I felt that what mattered most to me at present was whether the snow was nice and soft for the somersaults which I felt sure I was about to perform. No question for me, as yet, of a delightful thirty mile an hour excursion through air. I was going beneath the snow, and knew it.

However, Billy led off. Tom came back, and placed him carefully, saw that his snowshoes were straight at starting, gave him his final instructions. 'Don't bear too much forward, or you will over-balance. If you feel yourself going, sit down; that will save you a header under the snow; but you needn't be afraid of hurting yourself in any case, the snow is very soft.'

For a few moments I really thought Billy was about to pa.s.s through the ordeal with success. He glided down the first twenty yards of the hill in a manner which recalled the impression of 'easiness' which Tom's skill had aroused. Then something happened which inclined our poor William to direct his right snowshoe towards his left one. Instantly the left one, like an angry dog, resented the liberty, and turned upon its companion. They crossed; then disaster overtook William Onslow. For an instant he suggested a catherine-wheel at the Crystal Palace fireworks; he went three or four times head over heels, his snowshoes looking like the arms of a windmill as he went round. Then he stopped, and it seemed as though a sort of explosion had taken place. There was no sound, but the snow was cast up on all sides to a great height, and Billy disappeared. All that could be seen of our unfortunate William was the point of a snowshoe sticking out of his snow-grave, slowly waggling to and fro as though to remind us that Billy might still be found alive somewhere down below if any one thought it worth while to look for him.

Until I glanced at Tom's face, I felt anxious about Billy. Could he breathe down there? I wondered; and in how many pieces should we find the poor chap when we dug him up? But Tom was bent double with heartless mirth, and I concluded that probably he knew best about such disasters.

'Will he be all right?' I gasped.

'Rather,' Tom replied. 'He will struggle up in a minute.'

Billy did struggle up. There was a kind of upheaval in the white hill-side, and from the midst of the eruption appeared our William, gasping, angry, blinking, spluttering--snow in his mouth, in his nostrils, in his eyes. Snow filled his ears, his pockets, his boots; had crept between his neck and his collar; his hair was white with it, and in the midst of this ma.s.s of snowflakes blazed two angry eyes, which shot murderous glances at us because we laughed. Billy said nothing--he could not until he had got rid of the snow which filled his mouth. When he spoke at last he only gasped, 'All right, Bobby; your turn now. You will think it awfully funny when you have been buried alive in wet snow!'

'I'm sorry,' I said; 'but you did look so frightfully funny coming out of the hill-side in a kind of volcanic eruption.'

'Oh, don't mention it!' said angry William. 'I see Tom's amused too; I suppose he was never a beginner! Perhaps he will catch his foot in a root one of these times, and may I be there to see!'

We soothed him as best we could, but he informed me that the only consoling thing I could do would be to take my turn, while he watched.

There was nothing for it. I braced myself up for the enterprise, took my position at the edge of the slope, adjusted the toes of my _ski_, and started.

Was I a bird in air? Oh, the delight of it, this rapid pa.s.sing through crisp air! and how well I was doing it, ten--twenty--fifty yards in safety! Why, it was quite easy. How disappointed dear old Billy would be! Then, suddenly, a check, a whirl through the air, a sense of chill and suffocation, blindness, deafness. What had happened?--Where was I?--What was this hard thing in my mouth? Why was I standing on my head?

Where on earth were my arms and legs?

I found all these useful members presently; I also discovered that I was chewing the end of one of my snowshoes. I seemed to spend a century in making these discoveries, but I believe it was in reality a short half-minute. Then I struggled up into the light of day. I spluttered the snow out of my mouth and looked around. One of my _ski_ had finished the hill-shoot 'on its own,' and lay on the level far below. Close by stood Billy Onslow, behaving in a manner which provoked in me a momentary feeling of hatred for him. He was loudly roaring with laughter, doubling and undoubling himself in exaggerated mirth. I felt that the situation was not in the least funny, and that Billy was simply--and in very bad taste--taking his revenge.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I struggled up."]

And that was how we began to learn ski-running.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

IX.--INSTRUMENTS OF PALESTINE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

In the Great Synagogue of Aldgate, in London, a very fine specimen of the Shophar or Ram's Horn is blown on New Year's Day, and on the Day of Atonement.