Mickel’s answer was strictly non-committal--neither a decided “yes” nor a “no.” “How many animals do you possess?” Again he evaded the direct answer with an unsatisfactory “Not so many as I once had.” Then he called my attention to a herd of some three hundred animals or so on the neighbouring hillside, but added immediately, as though fearing he had hinted too much, “They do not all belong to me, however; some are the property of my neighbours. The herdsman we share between us.” After this I thought it as well to abandon commercial matters for literature. Mickel Nilsson Nia is a man of letters, devoting to books all the leisure his nomadic pursuits leave him. Of the literature of Lapland he spoke with pride. “With us,” added Mickel, “literature is essentially popular. Our poets sing only of what they have actually under their eyes; they celebrate our daily life, our labours.” Here is a specimen of our poetry:-- The reindeer are in full flight. Look at their wild flowing manes! Look at the capricious animals! Look how the noble creatures bound fleet-footed over the plain through the world! At his topmost speed the man pursues them, sweat standing out in great beads. “Ah, how fatigued I am!” he cries. “And yet what would I not do to catch them!” Oh, the precious animal! What flesh, what a skin, what horns, what veins, what bones! How excellent is all about him! How excellent he is himself! Ah, ah, ah! Look! Look! Two hundred, three hundred, thousands together! Ever do they flee. Into the lakes, into the snow do they cast themselves, seeking to get refreshed. Only when the sun has set will they come forth. Now the night has come; forth they dart. Now it is day and they hide themselves; only the plaintive bleats of the young fall on the ear. [Illustration: A VENDER OF SOUVENIRS--HE HAS DONE WELL AT HIS TRADE, AND HAS ACCORDINGLY TREATED HIMSELF TO A SPECIALLY-SMART CAP AND LUXURIOUS LAPP BOOTS. _From a Photograph._] As I was begging my interpreter to convey to Mickel Nilsson Nia my admiration of this stirring epic of hunting, my host picked up a bundle of Swedish illustrated papers from the corner and proceeded to make comments upon them. Just then, however, a herdsman entered with news of importance, so I rose and took my leave. Accompanied by my two companions, I retraced my steps through the wild, desolate country, in which none but the most intrepid of sportsmen could find any pleasure. It is a land in which there are neither hotels nor houses; a land which seems to take one back to some remote age of innocence, when simple, honest human beings drove their flocks and herds before them, chanting the while a hymn to the delights of a pastoral life.