I 7 2 LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES 



As I have not yet seen the fiord end of the river, we 

 cross down from the other side, and our host of the 

 day kindly points me to scenes of exciting adventure, 

 in which the difficulties of killing a hooked fish virtually 

 furnish sport which amounts to catching twice over. 

 He presses me to try a somewhat shallow and level run 

 where sea trout love to lie, and offers me his rod (mine 

 being left behind) for the purpose. About the twelfth 

 cast the reel sings a sweet anthem, and I have a delight- 

 ful quarter of an hour with an unconquerable fish that 

 leaps again and again in the air, but that has to give in 

 at last, and lie beside the salmon eventually, as hand- 

 some a fresh-run sea trout of 9 Ib. as mortal eye ever 

 feasted upon. 



The Norwegian angler, as I soon discover, has to 

 regard the sun not precisely as would a worshipper. It 

 has so fatal an effect upon the pools that he gets into 

 the habit of laying aside his rod, and waiting, book in 

 hand, pipe in mouth, excursionising in the land of Nod, 

 or practising any other pursuit that may occur to him 

 for filling up the time. In the southern streams that 

 are not affected by the melting of glaciers, and that have 

 a habit of quickly running out to a no-sport level when 

 the winter snows have disappeared (confining the fishing 

 often to about one calendar month), the cloudless days, 

 glorious though they are to the tourist, are a dire 

 affliction to him. Such a river as this which gives me 

 friendly welcome to the Norway fish is generally in fair 

 volume, and I see it tinted with a recent rise of some 

 feet. In a grey light, and from the water level, it 

 seems to have a milky discolour that bodes ill ; but 

 get upon one of the knolls when the sun shines, and you 

 have an exquisite blue, or rather variety of blues, 

 according to the depth of the water, or reflection from 

 the changing lights. There is a sweet silence in all this 



