friends I had at home would be valued beyond measure; that I knew at least half a dozen youngsters who were as well acquainted with the "Little Match Girl," and the "Ugly Duck," and the "Poor Idiot Boy," as he was himself, and his name was as familiar in California as it was in Denmark. At this he grasped both my hands, and looking straight in my face with a kind of ecstatic expression, said, "Oh, is it possible? Do they really read my books in California? so far away! Oh! I thank you very much. Some of my stories, I am aware, have been published in New York, but I did not think they had found their way to the Pacific Coast. Dear me! Thank

do

you! thank you! Have you seen my last-the-what you call it in English ?—a little animal"Mouse," I suggested.

66

No, not a mouse; a little animal with wings." "Oh, a bat!"

"Nay, nay, a little animal with wings and many legs. Dear me! I forget the name in English, but you certainly know it in America-a very small animal!"

In vain I tried to make a selection from all the little animals of my acquaintance with wings and many legs. The case was getting both embarrassing and vexatious. At length a light broke upon me.

"A musquito!" I exclaimed, triumphantly.

Nay, nay!" cried the bothered poet; "a little animal with a hard skin on its back. Dear me, I can't remember the name!"

"Oh, I have it now," said I, really desirous of relieving his mind-" a flea!"

At this the great improvisator scratched his head, looked at the ceiling and then at the floor, after which he took several rapid strides up and down the room, and struck himself repeatedly on the forehead. Suddenly grasping up a pen, he exclaimed, somewhat energetically, "Here! I'll draw it for you ;" and forth with he drew on a scrap of paper a diagram, of which the accom

panying engraving is a fac-simile.

"A tumble-bug!" I shouted, astonished at my former stupidity.

The poet looked puzzled and distressed. Evidently I had not yet succeeded. What could it be?

"A beetle!" I next ventured to suggest, rather disappointed at the result of my previous guess.

"A beetle! A beetle!-that's it; now I remember -a beetle!" and the delighted author of "The Beetle" patted me approvingly on the back, and chuckled glee

fully at his own adroit method of explanation. "I'll give you The Beetle,'" he said; "you shall have the only copy in my possession. But you don't read Danish! What are we to do? There is a partial translation in French-a mere notice."

"No matter," " I answered. "A specimen of the Danish language will be very acceptable, and the book will be a pleasant souvenir of my visit."

He then darted into the next room, tumbled over a dozen piles of books, then out again, ransacked the desks, and drawers, and heaps of old papers and rubbish, talking all the time in his joyous, cheery way about his books and his travels in Jutland, and his visit to Charles Dickens, and his intended journey through Spain, and his delight at meeting a traveler all the way from California, and whatever else came into his head-all in such mixedup broken English that the meaning must have been utterly lost but for the wonderful expressiveness of his face and the striking oddity of his motions. It came to me mesmerically. He seemed like one who glowed all over with bright and happy thoughts, which permeated all around him with a new intelligence. His presence shed a light upon others like the rays that beamed from the eyes of "Little Sunshine." The book was found at last, and when he had written his name in it, with a friendly inscription, and pressed both my hands on the gift, and patted me once more on the shoulder, and promised to call at Frankfort on his return from Switzerland to see his little friends who knew all about the "Ugly Duck" and the "Little Match Girl," I took my leave, more delighted, if possible, with the author than I had ever before been with his books. Such a man, the brightest, happiest, simplest, most genial of human beings, is Hans Christian Andersen.

The steamer Arcturus was advertised to sail for Reykjavik on the 4th of June, so it behooved me to be laying in some sort of an outfit for the voyage during the few days that intervened. A knapsack, containing a change

of linen and my sketching materials, was all I possessed. This would have been sufficient but for the probability of rain and cold weather. I wanted a sailor's monkeyjacket and an overall. My friend Captain Södring would not hear of my buying any thing in that way. He had enough on hand from his old whaling voyages, he said, to fit out a dozen men of my pattern. Just come up to the house and take a look at them, and if there wasn't too much oil on them, I was welcome to the whole lot; but the oil, he thought, would be an advantage—it would keep out the water. In vain I protested-it was no use -the captain was an old whaler, and so was I, and when two old whalers met, it was a pity if they couldn't act like shipmates on the voyage of life. There was no resisting this appeal, so I agreed to accept the old clothes. When we arrived at the captain's house he disappeared in the garret, but presently returned bearing a terrific pile of rubbish on his shoulders, and accompanied by a stout servant-girl also heavily laden with marine curiosities. There were sou'westers, and tarpaulins, and skullcaps; frieze jackets, and overalls, and hickory shirts; tarpaulin coats, and heavy sea-boots, and duck blouses with old bunches of oakum sticking out of the pockets; there were coils of rope-yarn well tarred, and jack-knives in leather cases, still black with whale-gurry; and a few telescopes and log-glasses. "Take 'em all," said the captain. "They smell a little fishy, but no matter. It's all the better for a voyage to Iceland. You'll be used to the smell before you get to Reykjavik; and it's wholesome very wholesome! Nothing makes a man so fat." I made a small selection-a rough jacket and a few other essential articles. "Nonsense, man!" roared the captain, "take 'em all! You'll find them useful; and if you don't, you can heave them overboard or give them to the sailors." And thus was I fitted out for the voyage.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

VOYAGE TO SCOTLAND.

THE Arcturus is a small screw steamer owned by Messrs. Koch and Henderson, and now some six years on the route between Copenhagen and Reykjavik. The Danish government pays them an annual sum for carrying the mails, and they control a considerable trade in fish and wool. This vessel makes six trips every year, touching at a port in Scotland both on the outer and return voyage. At first she made Leith her stoppingplace; but, owing to superior facilities for her business at Grangemouth, she now stops at that port. The cost of passage is extremely moderate-only 45 Danish dollars, about $28 American, living on board 75 cents a day, and a small fee to the steward, making for the voyage out or back, which usually occupies about eleven days, inclusive of stoppages, something less than $40. I mention this for the benefit of my friends at home, who may think proper to make a very interesting trip at a very small expense; though, as will hereafter appear, the most considerable part of the expenditure occurs in Iceland. Captain Andersen (they are all Andersens, or Jonasens, or Hansens, or Petersens in Denmark), a very active and obliging little Dane, commands the Arcturus. He speaks English fluently, and is an experienced seaman; and if the tourist is not unusually fastidious about accommodations, there will be no difficulty in making an agreeable voyage. I found every thing on board excellent; the fare abundant and wholesome, and the sleeping-quarters not more like coffins than they usually are on board small steamers. A few inches cut off the passengers' legs or added to the length of the berths, and a few extra handspikes in the lee scuppers to steady the vessel, would be