Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Chasing the Sun by R. M. Ballantyne (book recommendations txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Chasing the Sun by R. M. Ballantyne (book recommendations txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
While the gröd was being made, Fred Temple put up his fishing-rod and rambled away in search of a stream. He had not to go far. In about five minutes he found one that looked tempting. At the very first cast a large fish rose so greedily that it leaped quite out of the water and missed the fly. The next cast the fish caught the fly and Fred caught the fish. It was a splendid yellow trout of about a pound weight. In quarter of an hour Fred had three such trout in the pockets of his shooting-coat; in half an hour more the three fish were consigned by the three friends to the region of digestion!
And now the question of bed had to be considered. Grant settled it as far as he was concerned by throwing himself down on a pile of brushwood that lay in a corner, pillowing his head on a three-legged stool, and going off to sleep at once. Fred and Sam looked at the two beds. They were extremely dirty, and it was evident that straw was the bedding.
“Come, travellers must not be particular,” cried Fred, as he tumbled into his box.
“I couldn’t hold my eyes open five minutes longer to save my life,” muttered Sam, as he rolled over into the other.
In a minute the three friends began to breathe heavily. Two minutes more and they were snoring, a trio in happy forgetfulness of all their toils.
Now, it must be told that this pleasant state of things did not last long. Fred Temple and Sam Sorrel were not the only occupants of these beds. Truth, however disagreeable, must be revealed. There were living creatures which not only slept in those beds, but which dwelt there when perfectly wide awake; and these creatures waged unceasing war with every human being that lay down beside them. In a very short time the sleepers found this out. Fred began to grow restless and to groan. So did Sam. In the course of an hour or so Fred uttered a fierce exclamation, and rose on his hands and knees. So did Sam. Then Fred and Sam began to fight—not with each other, but—with the common enemy.
The battle raged for more than an hour, during which the foe, although frequently routed, returned again and again to the charge. Their courage and determination were tremendous. It cannot be said that Fred and Sam were actually put to flight, but a regard for truth compels me to state that they continued fleaing the greater part of that morning, and it was not until the sun was high in the heavens—pouring down a flood of light into that wild glen—that they gained the victory, and lay down to repose on their laurels and straw—not to mention the bodies of the dead and dying!
They hoped now to be rewarded for their exertions with a few hours’ repose. Vain hope! Scarcely had they closed their eyes when the door opened, and an old woman, with nose and chin of the nutcracker type, entered the room. This was the grandmother of the family; she had come to look at the strangers.
Grant’s face, with the eyes shut and the mouth wide-open, was the first object that met her view. She bent over him and looked into his mouth, as if anxious to examine his teeth. Having looked him over, and felt the quality of his clothes with her shrivelled fingers, she turned to the beds and stared at the other strangers.
Fred had gone off into a sort of doze, so he bore the inspection well, but Sam was only pretending to sleep, and when he peeped up at the old face that looked down on his with kindly interest and curiosity, he found it difficult to check a smile.
Having looked at them well, and touched everything belonging to them, to see what it could be made of, the old woman moved quietly towards the door. She shut it with a bang, however, and roused them up with a start—excepting Grant, who slept through everything, and in spite of everything.
They were just dropping off again when the old woman returned. She had forgotten something, and was moving across the floor, when she accidentally knocked over a bench, which upset a heavy stool. The crash was followed by a scream of alarm, and once more the sleepers were awakened—always excepting Grant. Scarcely had this happened when a strange sound was heard outside. It gradually became louder and more alarming.
“What can it be?” cried Fred, leaping out of bed, and rushing to the door. As he threw it open, there was a roar like the sudden discharge of artillery, and at the same moment a huge mass of rock, many tons in weight, bounded close past the door, went crashing through a wooden shed as if it had been a sheet of paper, and, carrying shrubs and small trees along with it, finally found a resting-place at the bottom of the glen. The huge mass had fallen from the cliffs above, and fortunately swept through the hamlet without doing further damage. It was followed by a shower of smaller stones, some of which struck and shook the house, and produced a commotion that caused even Grant to wake up and run out in alarm.
The whole valley was covered with rocks of every shape and size, which had at various times fallen from the cliffs on either side; and one could not look at them without wondering that the little cluster of huts had not long ago been destroyed. There are many such scenes in Norway, and accidents do sometimes occur, but not so frequently as one might expect.
It is needless to say that our travellers did not again court sleep in that wild spot. Before another hour had passed they were over the mountains and far away on their journey to the far north.
The scene is changed. We are on board the Snowflake and out once more among the thousands of islands off the coast far beyond the Arctic Circle now.
This is the region where the sun does not set night or day for several weeks in summer, and where he never rises night or day during several weeks in winter. But Fred Temple has not gained his point yet. He is behind time. Had he arrived at this latitude a week sooner, he would have seen the sun sweep an entire circle in the sky. But calms have delayed him, and now the sun just dips below the horizon at midnight. A good stiff, southerly breeze of a few hours would take him far enough north; but he cannot command the winds to blow, although Bob Bowie, the steward, evidently thinks he can make it blow by whistling! The sea is like a sheet of glass. Meanwhile, Fred and his friends are enjoying all the delight of daylight which is perpetual. Every thoughtful reader will at once perceive that where the sun only sets for a few minutes there can be no diminution of the light worth speaking of—nothing approaching even to twilight. The night before the arrival of the yacht at this place the sun set a little after midnight, and in twenty minutes afterwards it rose again to pursue its brilliant course through the northern sky.
It is scarcely possible for a Christian to look on such a scene without recalling those striking passages in God’s Word, which, in describing heaven, tell us that “there shall be no night there,” and speaks of a “sea of glass like unto crystal,” before the throne of God. Well may the heart of man in such a scene exclaim with the Psalmist, “O Lord, how manifold are Thy works! In wisdom hast Thou made them all: the earth is full of Thy riches.”
The islands in this particular place were positively uncountable. They lay scattered over the calm sea in hundreds. Some were no bigger than a boat—others were towering jagged mountains of more than four thousand feet high. Most of them were barren, and over the smaller islets, as well as round the cliffs of the larger ones, myriads of gulls and other sea-birds flew with clamorous cries. But for this, the scene would have been one of deep solitude as well as intense calmness. The sea-birds, however, filled the air with life, ay, and with melody, for the plaintive cry of wild-fowl when mellowed by distance is inexpressibly sweet and agreeable.
One thing that puzzled our voyagers very much was the deceptive appearance of land, so that they found it extremely difficult to judge correctly of distance. On one occasion, when sailing towards one of the large islands, Fred went up to Bob Bowie, who was leaning over the side watching the ripples caused by the Snowflake, and meditating, as he himself said, “on things in gin’ral, and nothin’ in particular.” It may be remarked in passing that this was not an uncommon state of mind with Bob Bowie.
“Well, Bob,” said Temple, “we’re going along nicely with this breeze. I expect we shall pass that island before many hours go by.”
“How far d’ye think it’s off, sir?” inquired the steward.
“About three miles,” said Fred.
“Three miles, sir, w’y, it’s not more than one mile—if it’s that.”
“What say you, Captain?” asked Fred.
“Ye better try,” suggested McNab, with a quiet grin.
“So I will, ho! stand by to heave the log there. Now, Captain, steer straight as the crow flies for the island.”
The yacht’s course was altered, the log was hove, and, observing the moment of starting, they awaited the result. Bob thought it was a smallish island with little bushes on it. The time they took in drawing near to it first led him to doubt the correctness of his own opinion. But when the bushes began to turn into trees, and the cliffs to tower into the sky above his head, and throw a dark shadow over the vessel, he was obliged to give in. The distance which he had imagined was not more than one mile turned out to be five.
On another occasion a similar case of the deceptive appearance of distance occurred. They were sailing up a certain fiord, which most of the people on board supposed was only about a mile broad. One of the sailors, Bill by name, insisted that it could not be more than three-quarters of a mile; and thereupon an animated discussion, amounting almost to a dispute, began. But Bill was not to be put down. “He was an old salt. He wasn’t to be taken in by these molehills, not he!” He had sailed round the world, according to his own account had been shipwrecked half a dozen times, and drowned once or twice, besides being murdered occasionally; so he thought himself a weighty authority, and entitled to great respect!
Well, to settle this point the yacht was sailed straight across the fiord, and the breadth, measured by the log, was found, as in the former case, to be about five miles.
The calms, although frequent in this latitude, did not last long. Light breezes sprang up now and then, and for several days carried our travellers to the north. But not fast enough, for the sun still kept ahead of them. During this period, they saw great variety of wonderful scenery, had several small adventures, and enjoyed themselves extremely.
Fred Temple usually began each calm day by jumping out of bed, rushing upon deck and going over the side, head-foremost into the water. He was generally followed by Sam Sorrel; but
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