A SMALL harbor steamer was puffing its way along Limfjorden, one of the inland bays of northern Denmark. The bridges between the twin towns of Aalborg and Nørresundby had opened to let it pass, and its load of Danes and their thirty-nine guests of 1928 watched the shores, where herds of sleek cows grazed and flocks of sea birds rested. Apparently something puzzled a boy, and suddenly he burst out: "What will the cows do when the tide comes in?" He was convinced that this whole expanse of low-lying land, with its scores of cottages and scattered villages, must be flooded twice a day. He was assured that it was safe, and had been, at least since the Viking fleets gathered in this very bay before setting out on their annual invasions of England's shores.
The steamer pulled in at Løgstør. On a day's notice the small town had arranged for a special reception. Members of the Town Council heading the townspeople led them in a parade past buildings decorated with Danish flags. Presently a Stars and Stripes was discovered, and spontaneously the boys halted and with bared heads gave vent to their feelings in the words of "The Star-Spangled Banner," which left an impression on the natives of a national loyalty not less than their own. In private motorcars they visited a castle of the Middle Ages; a. monastery which was built by the Christian grandsons of the heathen Vikings; and the town church where generation after generation had worshipped---all of these things giving a little glimpse into the long past of a people who turned out to welcome sons of a newly born nation.
Back home to Aalborg! Just a few days' stay with its families had been long enough for the boys to think of this town as their present home. They roamed through its winding streets, traded in its stores, and went sight-seeing by the hour. No wonder that one of them wrote in his diary: "Tomorrow morning will afford a much needed opportunity for catching up on some of our lost sleep. Not until afternoon are we to be on the go again." They visited the Budolfi Cathedral, where the venerable bishop received them; the cement works, which reminded them of the fact that millions of motorcars in the United States rush along on concrete made with Danish cement machinery; and "Kilden," the lively garden restaurant, where many a night they mingled with Aalborg citizens.
Every other move carried them centuries back, and some of them even to Roman days. Historians are led to believe that the wild and barbaric Cimbrians started their migrations down through Europe from Jutland to break through the Roman walls. The Cimbrian Stone in the inland hills of Rebild Park is supposed to mark the starting point of this trek, and it was appropriate that the sons of America, populated with generations of a modern immigration, should visit one of the starting places of an ancient migration.
Still more impressive was a coast-bound excursion. The motorcars worked their way over deep-rutted roads and through loose sand, and suddenly the North Sea stretched out ahead. From the top of the dunes the group gazed over the expanse, some hoping to look across to the shores of England, others satisfied with a dip in the cold blue water, and all amazed to find a beach racing track as smooth as any in Florida. They watched the sun setting behind the sharp horizon. On such occasions boys do not talk, and words are not wanted. They forgot past, present, and future; Nature had them in her grip. This throbbing world, however, would not let them forget its rush for long. It came back when a motorcar forced its way across the dunes and a proud Aalborg editor delivered the last edition of his afternoon paper. "We beat him to it," he said, thinking of his competitor. But his pride waned when a whooping cowboy on horseback dashed over the rim---the competitor with his last edition. Both of them, one in a modern machine and the other as a Pony Express rider, added a touch of American atmosphere to a place of Danish scenic beauty.
The North Sea and beauty are synonymous, but they are not always harmless. A gale will send roaring waves over treacherous sandbars, a picture which was brought to mind by the lifeboat., with its weather-beaten crew of fishermen, the life guards along the western shore of Jutland. From their stories you could almost imagine a ship wrecked out there on the farthest bar, and these gray-bearded men fighting their way to its side in a desperate struggle to rescue fellow beings. many a grave in the village churchyard bore witness to the outcome of the fights with merciless elements and left a memory of a self-sacrificing ocean population.
The end was drawing near, when the Aalborg papers carried this notice: "Before you American boys leave us, we invite all of you to a dance at our school. Bring your hosts' daughters as partners---that is, if they are old enough. There will be entertainment, and the first rays of morning will still find us dancing." And did they meet? The old Preparatory School had never seen such a crowd before when Hr. Rektor Thors, the headmaster, extended his welcome. Not one slack minute! Palle Vinten, a Danish student, spoke in English, and showed slides of the sights which they had missed. Had they actually missed a thing ---how could they at the rate of speed they had been going? Other students put on sketches, Anton Brockelman of Peekskill Academy recited the Gettysburg Address. Richardson Clark of the Chester, Iowa, High School, Clement Taylor and Harlow Gage of the Springfield, Massachusetts, Central High School, and Wendell Smith of the Detroit Country Day School rendered humorous quartette pieces. Brooks Emory of the University of Virginia told colored stories; Max Hosler of Findlay, Ohio, played the piano; and Stuart Jensen of the Boston Mechanic Arts High School recited "Nancy Bell." The committee was right in its statement about the first rays of morning and dancing. This venerable school may have witnessed more dignity in its days, but surely it had never housed a gayer party---and that in the presence of the bishop, the dean of the cathedral, and the faculty of serious-minded masters.
The next morning they left Aalborg by train. You could almost see the pride in their eyes as they turned to the rest of the American boys who had been picked up in three different places in Denmark and whom the Aalborg group now joined on the same train. "Look and see what we have," they seemed to say, and embraced in one glance the crowd of people on the platform: "Our Aalborg friends." In this crowd there was one man who was as sorry to see them leave as were the Aalborg host families. That was Mr. Bjerregaard, the group leader. He might be a little relieved, however, because he had been responsible for hosts and guests mingling in the right spirit. As a Dane living in America, he appreciated the differences which might have marred the visit and the similarities which had made it happy. It was a cordial cheer of gratitude for his assistance In. which rang in his ears. Just as cordial was the expression of gratitude which was contained in a message received a month later by the Aalborg committee: "The Aalborg Group today had from the S.S. United States its first glimpse of America. It was celebrated by a final meeting of the boys as a group, at which we discussed our wonderful stay in Aalborg. In this radiogram we wish to express our thanks for your kindness. Since we left we have often thought of your splendid hospitality and our many friends. We shall continue to do so in the future, we assure you. We only wish we had adequate means of showing our appreciation. Please communicate this greeting to our hosts, the committee, and the newspapers. The Aalborg Group."
IT was with the queerest feeling that a group in 1928 started out for Bornholm, its first Danish destination. "It is not even on the Danish map!" the boys had been told, and they wondered how the captain of the intercoastal steamer would ever find it. It was so far off in the Baltic that it had to have a little map all of its own in a frame added to the regular Danish map. The captain found it all right next morning, and so did the forty-four boys. "My, my, we are on the rocks!" was one of the "wisecracks" after a couple of days' stay. This should be taken literally, because Bornholm is the only Danish island which shows any ruggedness. They climbed around among its steep cliffs, deep gorges, and ice-cold caverns sprayed by the waves of the Baltic, except at one point where a beautiful white beach invited them to a swim. They were scattered in families in half-a-dozen towns all over the island and, to put it mildly, the size of the houses amused them. They looked like dolls' houses. Every so often they would run across one another in Rønne, and it would hardly seem possible to get lost in this town, which matched its houses in size. Two of them succeeded, however, in losing their way; but they were clever enough to go to the post office, and the postmaster, with the linguistic assistance of a couple of customers, managed to put them right.
In less than a day the whole island could be covered by motorcar and even on bicycle; but who would want to rush past all its places of interest? Here were the Hammershus Castle ruins, high up on a steep cliff with the ocean at its foot, and many a bloody tale was related of the Danish fights with the Swedes and of the state prisoners who had suffered in its dungeons. Here was the steel tower on Rytterknægten, the highest point of the island, below which were spread out the forests and farms, and from which in clear weather they could see the coast of Sweden. Here was a quarry from which the famous Bornholm granite had given material for many an elaborate building. In a couple of places they found the unique Round Churches, built half like a church and half like a fortress, in days when churchgoers needed more than prayers to protect them. And in almost every town they saw the stacks from which the smoke of the famed Bornholm smoked herring curled over the ocean. Indeed, there were plenty of places where you would want to stop.
The whole island population was in on the visit. Anyhow, it looked so the Sunday when all the country roads were crammed with automobiles and bicycles headed for Rønne. On its athletic field an official reception was given to the guests. On behalf of the Governor, Hr. Thornberg, the Commandant of the island, extended a cordial welcome in the presence of a thousand people, and expressed his happiness that they had found their way to this far-off island. The same note was sounded at a banquet of hosts and guests in the evening. No place was so far off and no island so small that it did not want to extend hospitality to a group of boys who came in the right frame of mind. To be sure, the frame of mind of the boys was right and so was that of Bornholm. As one of the boys wrote in a letter about his stay: "I must throw in the words 'wonderful hospitality' and 'lasting friendships,' and for good measure I must finish with 'smoked herring'!" A peculiar combination, to be sure; but everything could be expected from boys---from the most sentimental words to "wisecracks," when they had put a quaint Baltic island on their map of the world. After a week's stay they were inclined to think that the little framed map of Bornholm was the main part of Denmark and the rest an insignificant addition.
ODENSE, the birthplace of Hans Christian Andersen and the home of his fairy tales! This was all that the Odense group knew of this town. They knew nothing of its people, who in 1928 had invited forty-four boys to be their guests. If they had wanted a little. inside information, many a Dane would have told them that,. Odense society was the most exclusive of any, and that you almost had to have a pedigree to have access to it. The boys would hardly have believed it, because, before they ever arrived there, they had met Mr. Ernst Petersen, attorney-at-law and one of its leading citizens. He chatted and joked and smoked a pipe as he accompanied them on their train ride to the town, and was an untiring honorary secretary of its organizing committee. If Odense was like "Uncle Ernst," Odense was all right, and the story about exclusiveness and a pedigree was ---well, just another fairy tale.
There was only one thing the matter with it---the same as with fairy tales---it was too good to be true. They could hardly believe their eyes and ears when they were taken from one grand celebration to another, shown places of world fame and entertained in castles of nobility, received by dignitaries, and treated like such themselves. As a matter of fact, it was not so much a question of believing it or not, but of keeping up with the rounds of entertainments and living up to a level of super-society. What would they do, for instance, if they were to be the guests of Svend Neumann, the Honorable Royal Governor of the Island of Fyn, at a tea dance at Odense Castle? Whether Mellon would wear breeches or not at Buckingham Palace Seemed an insignificant trifle in comparison with their problems of ceremony. Yet on just such an occasion, the problem was easily solved by putting on white flannels and dark coats. They matched the white summer dresses of Odense debs and sub-debs, who, by the way, soon made everyone feel as much at ease as did the Governor and his charming wife. The both moved around in the group as naturally as if they had been a father and a mother at a family party for their own children. Surely, tea dances in castles were an easy matter!
It was just as easy to move in the halls of real nobility when you once got used to it. Of course, at first you had to practise by looking at the abodes of noblemen from the outside. Here was beautiful Egeskov Castle, built on a foundation of oak trunks in the middle of a pond and unapproachable when the drawbridge was up. It was tempting to enter, to be sure; but why not wait until you reached Brahetrolleborg Castle, more spacious and equally beautiful, and stopped right in front of its gates, and Count and Countess Rewentlow came out and invited you inside? Its interior simply carried you back to days when knights were bold and barons held their sway. Its tapestries, paintings, and furniture looked like the choice pieces of a museum, the only difference being that in these halls you made use of the furniture, rested in the chairs, sat at the tables, and nibbled dainty refreshments from precious china. It was just like playing at nobility yourself.
Then for a break in the life of the great---a hearty luncheon in a country inn, and a couple of hours at Ollerup People's College, where you might have thought that the gymnastic exercises on the green lawn were preparations for stage acrobatics, if you had not been told that the gymnasts were ordinary farmer students who did their daily dozen. Top this off with a swim in the college pool, and you felt not like nobility, but like a king.
But what about this Hans Christian Andersen? Had he actually existed, or was it all a fairy tale? Of course, he had. His very birthplace stood right there in Odense. "But he must have been mighty small," said one of the smart fellows, for Hans Christian Andersen's house looked as if it had been picked right out of a toy box. After all, not much space is needed to accommodate one man, even if later his genius is acknowledged by the entire world and his fairy tales translated into sixty languages and taken possession of by all races. What they could not see in the tiny house, they heard in the lecture by Mr. H. G. Holbeck, the headmaster of the Odense Cathedral School, and they appreciated why Denmark in awe and love pays homage to its most beloved poet.
Any Dane would have expected Odense City Hall to be the last place to be opened up to a crowd of foreign boys, and, for that matter, to any boys. It was a unique honor bestowed upon the group to gather in its halls and to be greeted by the entire city council, accompanied by ladies. At small tables, tastefully decorated with red and white sweet peas, tea and delicious pastry and fancy cakes were served, and Mr. Christian Petersen, the Honorable Mayor, expressed the town's pleasure in being host at this reception. Everyone felt the sincerity of his sentiments when he greeted them as sons of a nation which had thrown its influence into the scales of national destinies and after the World War had worked for bringing the once lost land of Schleswig back to Denmark, reuniting Danes with Danes. And what a job for an ordinary boy like Robert Halbach of Lake Forest Academy, Quincy, Illinois, to rise to this occasion and on behalf of the group return greetings which had touched upon international statesmanship! It was different from returning polite compliments.
Who would ever dare to call Odense society exclusive when all through the week's stay it had opened up every door to foreign guests, and when on the evening of departure its nobility, society, fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, and friends gathered spontaneously and informally at the Grand Hotel to celebrate with the boys at a last party before seeing them off to the train. Any thought of exclusiveness was simply absurd. If there had been any, all Odense's walls of reserve had broken down. The Mayor was right when he said: "They came, they saw, they conquered"; and so was the boy who paraphrased it: "We came, we saw, and they conquered!" The stay was true to Odense fame---it was one great fairy tale of people and things too good to be true.
IT was like spending a week in the cradle of Denmark's history to stay in the town of Vejle. Where once a muddy river ran into the bay from the big glaciers out of which all of Denmark emerged a million years ago, this provincial town had grown to be the center of Denmark's earliest historic memories. Just west of it were the Jellinge Boulders, which may be said to mark the birthplace of the nation; on the east, the waters which united its numerous islands; on the north, Jutland, the mainland which had become its territorial backbone; and not far south, the German border, across which many a peril had threatened its national existence. But who would think of perils to Vejle where it rested among gently sloping hills? Beauty and history were the notes which rang forth from the very first moment. As the chairman of the reception committee said in his speech of welcome: "Many have come here from far and near to enjoy our restful beauty, but not until today have we received in our midst a group of thirty-three American boys. May you leave us with an impression of the nature and history which have made Vejle our beloved home!" Bronson Collins of Sherrill High School, Oneida, New York, in his reply assured him that they would do their best to understand and appreciate it and convey their impressions to their friends in America.
It happened, however, that the first group visit was made to a modern factory entirely disassociated from Danish history and nature. It was Steensen's Margarinefabrik. From India's shores with their cocoanut Palms, Denmark's merchant marine brought the copra across oceans, and in this factory wondering eyes saw the vegetable oil transformed into Danish margarine. It took the manager's breath away when one of the boys assured him that it tasted just as good as American butter. Was this American politeness or boyish sincerity? Well, it was a matter of taste, anyway.
They made Vejle town history as they were seated around. the council table at the Town Hall and Mr. Fr. Poulsen, the Honorable Mayor, extended his welcome with the statement that civilization and culture, whether in America or in Denmark, had sprung from common sources. Ralph Rearick of Loomis School, Windsor, Connecticut, struck a similar note of relationship in his reply that Vejle had put them to shame. It had eliminated all their worries about differences between America's and Denmark's culture and made them feel as if they were part of its people. If that were so, they must have appreciated the ups and downs which Mr. Jacob Alsted, the headmaster of the Preparatory School, presented in his lecture on Vejle history from the days of the birth of the nation; through the ravages of the Thirty Years' War; the sufferings in the fights against the Swedes, and the threatenings of disaster during Denmark's last war with Germany. Yet Vejle had withstood it all and had grown steadily, but not as rapidly as, for instance, Chicago. "Of course not! Who could expect that in the Danish climate?" the headmaster put it. "Chicago is hardly any older than I, and look what a small fellow I am!"
The marker of the birth of a nation---this would appeal to boys even with a scant sense of history, and they stood in awe at the two big Jellinge Boulders erected ten centuries ago, with their runic inscriptions telling posterity that here rested the father of Harald, who united all the Danes into a nation, the grandfather of King Canute who conquered England. Truly it was a call from a historic past. They made a jump into the present to the garden of the Honorable Knud Valløe, the King's Chamberlain and Governor of the Vejle territory. Nobody would think of warfare as the Governor and Her Ladyship treated sedate Vejle society and friendly American boys to a peaceful five o'clock tea, and Clay Murphy of Lanier High School, Macon, Georgia, replied to the Governor's cordial welcome in his peaceful Southern draw].
Another jump, and they were back in a war zone, or anyhow where Denmark's last enemy had stamped on Danish soil---in Schleswig. There they stood in a fortress---but how quaint! Not a rampart, not a moat, and not a single gun in sight! It was an ordinary building, yet one of the strongest fortifications Denmark had ever erected. It was the Askov People's College, across the old border line from Schleswig which Prussia conquered in its last war with Denmark. After the loss, strong-hearted Danish men and women built the school and in its hall fortified the souls of sons and daughters of Danish parents who were forced to live under a foreign yoke, but who wanted to protect the hearts and minds of their children against being Prussianized. The Askov College had offered intellectual and spiritual strength and had done it so well that when Schleswig was regained by Denmark after the World War, a population as purely Danish as ever lived occupied its farms, villages, and towns. This proved how strong the weapons of the soul and mind can be, and Mr. Steffensen, one of the masters of the Vejle Preparatory School, reminded Danes and Americans alike of how strong a cultural means our mother tongue offers in our possession of this world. It cannot be denied that the boys were happy that Mr. Steffensen was equally capable in his use of English, or his speech would not have been understood, nor would he have been as efficient an Honorary Secretary of the Vejle Committee.
In the Old Castle of Kolding a memory of the war which came nearest to a World War fastened upon their minds. Its charred ruins showed what an army of ravaging Spaniards had left in their wake in Denmark, where Napoleon had sent them to assist his friends the Danes. If allies left such traces, what would enemies leave? The boys imagined what would have happened to all of Denmark if it had not steered clear of the World War. A boat trip on the bay past green and woody banks carried them away from the path of war to the immaculate buildings and wonderful gardens of Tirsbæk Palace, which illustrated the combination of historical significance and natural beauty of the Vejle scenery.
History, scenic beauty, war or peace---who thought of that in "Skyttehuset," the favorite Vejle park restaurant, with its lively crowd of hosts, hostesses, sons and daughters, committee members, and American guests gathered to spend the last hours of new, but firmly established friendships? Here were stunts, spirited entertainment, music, speeches and dancing---lacking in historical effect, to be sure, and maybe not beautiful, but certainly a real expression of life of today. One listened to a guitar accompaniment of songs in true Jutland dialect, which was said to be similar to English, although not one American could understand a word of it. John Tyler of Williston Academy, Easthampton, Massachusetts, talked of American home life; Henry Stover of George School, Pennsylvania, of Danish home life; and William Faxon of Loomis School, Windsor, Connecticut, paid compliments to the Vejle ladies. You were positive their speeches were not historical lectures, nor were the speeches from the hosts and committee members. Yet you had a feeling that they added to Vejle history. It was less certain that the stunts added any beauty. At any rate, no one would maintain that there was beauty in Anson Albree of Blair Academy, Blairstown, New Jersey, in his wildly mad clog dancing, but it was as funny as Broadway, and he had to do it over. A tiny streak of sentimental beauty, however, was sensed in the melancholy melodies of "Old Black Joe" and "Way Down Upon the Suwannee River," and also in the two national anthems. Merriment, however, was predominant for the evening, and kept its place in the memories of the boys of 1928 as the train carried them away from this lovely cradle of Denmark's history, kept gently rocking by its loyal citizens.
STOCKHOLM'S leading families were like the families of any big city. The summer season would force them away to their homes way off in the country, and they would want their American guests of 1928 to join them there. A message from Mr. Clayton H. Ernst, the leader of the Stockholm group, was only slightly exaggerated by the words: "The boys are scattered from here to Jericho and back again." They were in private homes on lakes and rivers, at the seashore and in forests. The families, however, would not think of having them leave Sweden without enjoying a stay in their capital, and they brought all sixty-six boys to their city homes for a four days' program of group activities.
It turned out to be a continuous round of sights, each better than the one before. Was the Riddarholms church more impressive than the Storkyrkan? The Royal Palace lovelier than the National Picture Gallery? And what about the Northern Museum with its complete review of Swedish culture, arranged so vividly that it carried you centuries back? Or to turn to modern days, did not the Nordiska Kompaniet (Northern Company) give you an idea of how progressive Sweden was in commerce and international trade, and at the luncheon on its roof garden was there not every bit of the farsighted and clever business main of today in the speech of welcome from its president? Of course, it did seem a little amusing to have a Stockholm building of ten stories referred to as a skyscraper, but it had to be admitted that against the background of the regular four- or five-story houses it did look tall.
A night in the Royal Opera with an audience of formally attired people proved that the Swedish musical standard was as high as that of art, architecture, and commerce and that the cast in the opera "Turandot" matched the best of any nation. The excursion to Skokloster brought you right into the midst of the Middle Ages. What good fortune that Sweden had escaped the ravages of strife centuries back, so that scores of castles had remained intact with their collections of armor as old and quaint as in the Skokloster halls.
The visit to Upsala. was a revelation. Imagine strolling where students five hundred years ago had roamed, in the oldest university town of Scandinavia, and listening, in the original cathedral pews, to the dean's sermon in English. In the lecture rooms, scholars for generations had gathered knowledge, and they were still studying there to prepare themselves to be of service to Sweden, continuing the unbroken educational growth of a nation. Afterwards, at a luncheon you felt that, whether foreign or native, jollification was alike when ringing cheers were responded to in as voluminous and lusty Swedish yells. Who would have expected that from Swedes who at first sight had looked very reserved? There was also the big dinner at the Skansen, the favorite amusement park of Stockholm, with the old-fashioned folk-dancing by natives in national costumes. It was another sample of the variety of Swedish life, a reminder of days gone by in a country which now has all the attributes of up-to-date culture. A visit to the L. M. Ericsson manufacturing plants for the most modern telephone equipment left an indelible impression of industrial efficiency; and a trip to the Baltic shore---to luxurious beach resorts---of the natural beauty of Stockholm surrounded by canals and sounds, green islands, and shore drives with big residences. It was a city both busy and beautiful, with a population which enriched the life of the whole nation.
The greatest experience was left for the last night, an occasion which proved that no one can match the Stockholm people in creating festivity. They chose to say good-bye to their guests in the building, which is the boast of Swedish architecture and art, the City Hall of Stockholm, where bright lights in lofty halls greeted the whole group of host families and guests. Everyone looked formal, the ladies and girls in evening gowns and the men and boys in evening dress, as they entered the Blue Room for a buffet supper. Swedish dignity seemed to prevail. Nothing, however, could suppress the spirit which had been created by hospitality life in the private homes. It had to find expression regardless of place, and it did at this farewell party. Who would have believed that just two short weeks ago in the railway station the Swedes had been hesitant about meeting the boys, and the boys had been wondering whether they ever would fit into Swedish life, when you saw them all associating here like old acquaintances? Who wonders that the boys would want to show their gratitude not only towards the individual families but towards the committee on whose shoulders had rested the responsibility for every detail of the program? It was with real sincerity that Mr. Ernst, on behalf of the boys, presented Mr. David Holmblad, the untiring chairman of the committee, with a silver cup ornamented with the official MY FRIEND ABROAD badge and saw him accept it with just as sincere appreciation for having had the opportunity of making a success of the visit. He even smiled as Mr. Ernst added the title "Mussolini" to his name, in respect for his ability to arrange everything so efficiently. A little joke like that proved more than anything how the stiff formality on the morning of arrival had given way to intimacy. It is doubtful whether the dignified halls of Stockholm's Stadshus (City Hall.) had ever witnessed friendlier people than the Swedes and the boys at this party, where the dancing couples and the chatting groups contradicted the idea that reserve could not be conquered.
The same. spirit reigned on the railway platform when the boys departed. It is said that tears were seen there in many eyes, if anyone can believe that formal Swedes and American boys can give in to their feelings.
FOR a long time the members of the 1928 Gothenburg group saw nothing of one another. For two weeks they were living in private homes, and hardly one of these was in the city. They were scattered on islands, narrow strips of land jutting out into the ocean., bay shores and beaches, north, south, and west of Gothenburg. A trip to the city almost invariably meant a boat ride, winding in and out through narrow waters, along a jagged coast line, until the craft would land at a wharf lined with ocean-going liners and coastwise freighters which left no doubt in the visitors' minds that Gothenburg was Sweden's leading port.
In this port were pulled all the wires which had sent sixty-three boys to a vacation life among care-free city people, making them welcome guests for swimming, tennis, hiking, bicycling, picnics, and evening dances at beach hotels; and the same wires gathered them again in the city with their Swedish host families. Everybody realized that the pleasant beach life would not have been possible without three or four hundred thousand people working hard in Gothenburg's offices, manufacturing plants, warehouses, and along busy wharfs.
No better introduction could be had to this bustling city than an elaborate luncheon as guests of the Swedish-American Line on board the M.S. Gripsholm, its beautiful liner. Here was no fear that the delicious food would not stay where it belonged, for the Gripsholm was safely docked, and it was with justifiable pride that Mr. Axel Jonsson, vice-president of the line, welcomed all the American and Swedish guests. Even front a couple of sight-seeing busses it was clear that Gothenburg citizens were hard to match as playmates around their beach homes, and that they were equally hard to match as hardworking business men in modern office buildings. Not a cargo would arrive from the Far East, not a freight car travel on any part of thousands of miles of rail, not a barge load pass through the famous Gøta Canal, but that some efficient executive and conscientious employee had sent it on its way while summer guests had been swimming or dancing. But nobody was rushed. All the nicely dressed workers and neat office girls seemed restful on their way home to their clean-looking apartment houses. How did they ever get all their work done? No one missed the commonplace tourist attractions in such environments. They would not have fitted into this key city of commercial enterprises, nor would they have been the right background for its citizens, so amazingly efficient and yet seemingly with plenty of time for play.
Indeed, they had time for play, even in the city proper, as they gathered in the ballroom in the park restaurant of "Trädgardsföreningen," where two hundred and fifty Gothenburg citizens honored their American guests at a banquet. There was complete relaxation in the air as some of its busiest leaders for a couple of hours forgot all their business appointments to perform their duties as hosts to foreign boys. There was a note of real playfulness pervading the welcome speech of Dr. Wigert-Lundström, editor-in-chief of Gøteborg's Morgonpost, and of Dr. Malte Jacobson, the official representative of the city; and the boys, to the amusement of all present, interspersed their leader's speech of thanks with appropriate bits of popular songs. And the dancing at the beach hotels was continued by more dancing in the ballroom, concluding a stay full of recreation in a city of hard work, but a city which had time for both play and work.
ONE of the boys, when he heard a Danish boy in good fun say: "We used to own it," immediately answered: "You have lost a pearl." He meant Hälsingborg, where eighteen boys were entertained for a week in 1928 by the families of this Swedish town. He was right in using the word "pearl," as far as its setting was concerned. The blue Sound lined its waterfront; the well-tilled Swedish farmland surrounded its southern and western limits; and the cliffs of the Kullen promontory loomed high north of it; and above its neat buildings towered Kärnan, the square, grim tower of the castle which, in the Middle Ages, used to protect its peaceful citizens against the pirates of the sea.
During the daytime to roam around the cliffs and to jump across the bottomless gorge, to see the statue in the town square of the mighty General Steenbock, who had taught the Danes a lesson in warfare, to investigate the Höganäs coal mines, and to go to bed at night in the glare of the sweeping beam of the Kullen lighthouse---all this was enough to make the "pearl" keep its lustre. It was also a memorable experience to meet the famous Captain Lundborg, the Swedish flier, and to see the pictures of his flight over the Arctic icefields, where he had spotted and rescued Nobile, the Italian explorer. The Danes had lost Hälsingborg and might not miss it, but eighteen American boys took possession of it and kept it in their memories.
"COME to Norway, old man, and you'll see things!" This expression is supposed to be kidding the Norwegians, but we can be sure that two hundred boys of the 1928 group are serious about it. One week's stay there made them realize its truth.
The very location of the city of Oslo, its capital, was impressive. From the fjord you could easily imagine the vast ranges of mountains, glaciers, and snow-clad peaks stretching all the way up to the night sun, so far that if you turned all this mass of land, with Oslo as a pivot, its northernmost point would touch the dome of St. Peter's, in Rome. The main street of Oslo was impressive. Walking up its gently sloping promenade, you passed the House of Parliament, where history had been made when strong-minded statesmen had declared Norway a nation independent of Sweden. You passed the statue of Henrik Ibsen, who changed the literary outlook of the world; and away up at the end of the boulevard loomed the palace where lived the King, one of the monarchs of the Scandinavian democracies. The people themselves were impressive in their cordiality as they took you and your baggage across the slopes or along the fjord to their villas and homes, or up to the comfortable university dormitory at Blindern.
The more the boys saw of Norway and the Norwegians, the more they came to feel how the country and the population differed from the other Scandinavian countries and peoples. The ruggedness of the land stood out. In motorcars they left the city's paved streets and soon hit roads carved out of the very rocks along deep crevices and mountain walls. Away out at Sundvolden they climbed up to Kongens Utsikt, and were rewarded by a vista of mountain waters and snowcaps, leaving no doubt about scenic beauty. When they gathered with the host families at a banquet, and Mr. Hans Florelius, the chairman of the committee, addressed the party, his friendly speech and his fellow countrymen's conversation fitted in with their land---there was a refreshing rugged directness in their friendliness.
The close connection between land and people was brought to mind also on visits to the Viking boats. With obvious pride the guests were shown these marvellous specimens of craftsmanship. For a thousand years they had been hidden in the ground, but they had emerged as solid in their simplicity as when they had taken Norwegians across the expanse of the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean to discover and settle Iceland. There the old Norsemen had established the first parliament, independent of any king, in a spirit like the one which prompted modern Norway to establish its own independence. There was an unseen yet strong link between the liberty-loving Norwegians of ten centuries ago and the citizens of today.
In the Ski Museum the identical character of the country and its people was evident. There were samples of the equipment which Norwegians had used for centuries and were still using on their hikes across endless snow fields. There were the skis on which Frithjof Nansen, as the first human being, had crossed the solid ice of Greenland, and also the scanty equipment of Roald Amundsen, which he had used on his discovery of the South Pole. The natives were familiar with anything which had been done or could be done on skis. It was an experience to have them take you to the Holmenkolmen ski jump. From the top of its wooden scaffolding you marvelled at the daring of those who dashed down its track out into the open space and landed way down in the valley. Boys from the prairie or from a Southern plantation thought that this was certainly a sure way of committing suicide, but the Norwegians would land on their skis safe and sound. The boys wished that it would be their good fortune to visit Norway some time in the winter and see how from olden times to the present day tens of thousands of Norwegians moved everywhere on skis.
In the castle of Akershus, in the throne hall with its ancient splendor, they got a glimpse of Norway's history and its forced union with Denmark and Sweden, but sailing down along the shores of Oslo fjord, they were moving in its now free waters. On dozens of yachts and sailing craft, happy people enjoyed the salty air and the view of the slopes with hundreds of cosy residences; and the steamers, the yachts, the craft and the homes were all filled with people as free as any in the world.
On the coast, in Skien, and way up in the mountains in Rujkan, were two smaller groups of boys as guests of the people of two small towns of Norway. In Skien they noticed how a self-supporting community added strength to the stability of native life, and in Rujkan how Norwegian ingenuity controlled the turbulent mountain waters, harnessed them to gigantic turbines, and produced nitrogen to be exported all over the world, adding to the welfare of other nations. On their departure from Norway the boys could truly say: "Come to Norway, old main, and you will see things!" but they could just as truly add: "And you will meet people who are just as good!"
