70 DAYS IN THE OPEN 



tains to the sunny plains of Italy. We stop long 

 enough to admire the St. Bernard dogs, and then 

 on down the mountains. When we begin the 

 descent some of the party assert that this ride will 

 be less interesting than that of the morning when 

 we were all the time climbing upward. Possibly 

 it is; but it is far more exciting. Five horses 

 going at full speed towards a precipice which drops 

 away for a full thousand feet, the leaders seem- 

 ingly pawing into space before they turn the corner, 

 the outer wheels of the diligence constantly flirting 

 with the edge of the precipice these are things 

 that lead to nervous prostration. As I look back 

 at that trip I am satisfied that it was only by lean- 

 ing hard toward the inside of the road that I saved 

 the passengers and the whole outfit from untimely 

 destruction. 



When the Amsterdam doctor descanted upon 

 the deliciousness of the trout served in the Brieg 

 hostelry, he awakened memories of the Nepigon 

 and the Adirondacks, of northern Wisconsin and 

 the Miramichi! I formed a resolution, then and 

 there, to catch as well as to eat some of the trout 

 for which Brieg was said to be famous. Arriving 

 at Brieg at 5.30 P.M. after our drive of forty miles, 

 I at once interviewed the concierge of the hotel, 

 who assured me that it would be no trick at all to 

 catch a mess of trout before dinner-time. Away 

 to a tackle store, where line and leader and hooks 

 were bought and a cane-pole rented, an interview 



