There

The treasure of the farm is kept out of sight in the attic rooms, scrupulously guarded from the attacks of insects and the hands of mischievous children. This treasure is the wardrobe. No farmer so poor but has his Klädekammare, in which is gathered all the store of linen and woollen cloth, the product of feminine industry, the holiday garments of summer and winter, the wheels and reels and implements for domestic manufacture of textiles. This room is as sacred as a sanctuary. is the odor of fresh linen and the fragrance of dried leaves as the door is opened. The floor is as clean as scrubbing can make it; no trace of fly or spider is seen on the low window which dimly lights the room. Along the rafters are nailed cords or slender birch poles, and on these rows of snowwhite chemises are arranged methodically along, graduated in size. Below these bodices show in ranks of blazing red, and the heavy black petticoats hang against the wall. Clusters of beautifully starched caps fill the corners, and regiments of shoes stand all along the floor under the eaves. On the other side are the men's clothes, and the wonderful sheep-skin garments for winter use, the wool as white as swan's-down, and the hide as soft as chamois. The clumsy great-coats of the men, the sheep-skin petticoats of the women, and the numerous fleecy dresses of the children are carefully hung in rows, with all wrinkles rubbed out, and no spot or stain to mar the creamy surface of the dressed hide. It is with no small degree of pride that the farmer's wife displays these treasures, the accumulation of many years, and the result of many a long winter's patient work at spinning-wheel and loom. When Sunday comes the toilstained garments are laid aside, and the sweet, fresh holiday costume is put on for the day. But the farmer's wife, who on Sunday stands as prim and stiff in her starched linen as the figures in old portraits, wears at her every-day work the simple costume of rough homespun, or the dress which years before her mother used to wear to church. Her husband finds at his work in the fields the modern costume cheaper and more comfortable than the complicated and formal dress which the

ing the week he dresses but little different from any other working-man. Thus degeneracy of the distinctive costume gradually creeps in, and probably in another generation the Klädekammare will exist no more.

Before the extensive use of steamboats on the waterways around Stockholm the Dalecarlian girls were accustomed to come to the capital in great numbers each season to row the passenger boats from point to point in the neighborhood of the city. This custom still exists to some extent, and the visitor may be rowed by a buxom peasant girl to an island restaurant, or across an arm of the lake. The girls have lost none of the moral independence and the remarkable physical strength which have since the beginning of Swedish history distinguished their ancestors. In the large cities they are found to-day mixing mor tar, carrying burdens, and rowing boats quite as easily as the men, and quite as acceptably to the employers. The most famous boatwomen are the girls of the parish of Rättvik, whither we had rambled in the search of the mythical midsummer dance.

One Sunday morning we watched the people as they landed from the church boats, and drew them up on the shore like the Vikings of old. During the long church service we hid ourselves away in a high-backed pew, where we thought we should be unobserved at our sketching. We carelessly left a vacant pew between us and the wall, and soon we had an eager spectator looking over our shoulder, and only sitting down when he took out his snuff-box and stowed a great pinch inside his under lip. We attempted to hide, our work from his eye under the very shallow pretense of attention to the prayerbook, but he whispered in a hoarse stage tone, "Don't mind me; I've seen a good deal of this thing before." He then installed himself as our protector, and kept all others out of the pew beside or behind

When the service was over we translated to our mentor the information that was destroying our peace of mind, and he assured us with perfect calmness that in the village of Vikarby across the lake there would be a dance that very night. He furthermore went on to detail the beauties of the festival, and to dilate so eloquently on the attractiveness of the peasant girls that we were weak enough, to believe him, and were unhappy until we found a means of conveyance to that same village. It was distant across the lake perhaps two miles and a half, and quite four times as far away by the dusty hilly road. The church boats had come overloaded to the water's edge, and no small boats were to be had. We had just made up our minds to walk, encouraged in this enterprise by the sight of a great crew of pretty girls putting off in one of the Vikarby boats, when the people began

to fill the second one. It was quite as elastic as an American horse-car. When it was filled overfull, a half-dozen laggards came down to the shore and calmly piled themselves in. This addition to the freight apparently made no difference at all. We took courage from this incident and resolved to try it ourselves. The third and last boat was rapidly filled up, and we boldly went down and asked to be taken to Vikarby. A place was rapidly made for us in the bow- a small place, but still as much as anybody had-and off we went.

The moment we were clear of the shore the forty oars struck the water together, and began the stroke in perfect rhythm. The immense weight of the people caused the frail craft to quiver and settle, and for a moment it almost seemed as if she must sink lower. But with the first strong strokes she felt alive and leaped forward, swelling her sides like some heavy-breath

ing monster.

The rival boats of the village had a little the start of us, and our crew was determined to reach the village as soon as they. The excitement developed rapidly as we darted out into the deep water of the bay. How the lithe oars bent, and how the gunwale creaked and shivered! The old helmsman kept his eye on the leading craft, and steered with a firm hand, now and then noting the progress by a word or gesture of encouragement. Ten thwarts held four rowers each, two girls and two men, the latter sitting in the middle and holding the end of the oar. Every space on the gunwale between the oars was occupied by a woman, the stern held a mass of children and adults packed closely, and even to the high stem the bow was wedged in solidly with men and women. Altogether we counted very nearly a hundred souls.

The day was very warm, and a bright sun threw up a painful reflection from the water. The girls took off their kerchiefs and pulled the harder; the men paused one by one to doff their jackets, and then worked with the more vigor, the perspiration running from their faces. On the thwart near us sat a young couple

who took the opportunity at every recovery of the stroke to speak to one another or to glance into each other's eyes. When she smiled he threw himself with redoubled energy on the oar. She on her part sometimes hid her heated, blushing face in the full sleeves of her outstretched arms. It was perhaps the only chance during the week of speaking to one another, for the social etiquette of Dalecarlia forbids the young men to notice the young women in public places, and only condones conversation on the sly. This was not the only little pastoral drama on the boat, for other plump damsels and muscular youths were becoming intimate as they tugged at the same oar. Truly age and experience had the helm, but young love propelled the boat.

On the same thwart with the young lovers sat a man of middle age with his wife beside him. As he let go the oar to take off his jacket he turned and said, in the best of American: "It's an awfully hot day! Don't you think so?" He had spent half his life on a Western farm, and had come home to live in comparative ease.

Thrilled by the excitement of the race we watched the distance between the boats

IN RÄTTVIK CHURCH.

grow smaller and smaller, and as we were stern and stern with them we ran upon the shingly beach. Out tumbled crew and passengers with the same impulse, and the boat was instantly housed under the long shed.

We strolled up through the grain to the village, where we were to await the expected festival, and sought along the rows of log-houses for the home of a Dalecarlian girl connected with the Stockholm Society of the Friends of Manual Arts, which we learned in the boat was in the village. We were directed to a house where brilliant red paint had been plentifully applied on all sides. Knocking at the door we heard at first no response, but later a faint "Stig in!" Entering the living-room we saw in a wooden box bed under the window the figure of a boy of perhaps sixteen years lying in the sunlight, with the shadows from the house plants flickering on the linen. He explained that he had charge of the house, but that his mother would soon return. We asked if Greta lived there. His pale

face brightened as he an-
swered: "She did live
here, but she has gone to
Stockholm
now, and
won't come back until
winter. I shall be well
then." And he showed
us, as he spoke, a scarred
and emaciated leg, ex-
plaining that he had

been in bed for eighteen months; that the doctor lived nearly twenty miles away, and had only seen him once or twice since the accident had happened which shattered his leg. "But," he cheerfully assured us, "I am better now, and shall soon be out." Soon two little girls scarcely as old as the invalid came in and out by the bedside bringing flowers and a few playthings to amuse him with. Their ruddy, sun-browned faces under the quaint pointed caps contrasted strongly with the pallor of the blonde boy as he lay in the sunlight. It was a touching little genre picture.

The mother and sister of Greta shortly came in, and gave us a hearty welcome. The former began to make no stranger of us by taking off her Sunday clothes. We sat and fidgeted, and knew not whether to run away or to stay and affect not to notice her. Before we had fairly time to decide she had stepped out of a couple of woollen petticoats, taken off a thick bodice, the pointed cap with two under-caps, the clumsy conventional shoes and the shapeless stockings, and stood in her che