A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



my friend Lort Phillips for a short but blissful fortnight. The 

 early part of the season had been hot, and most of the lower 

 snow had melted, so that we were dependent on rain for a much 

 needed flood. The river was, in fact, very low, and there had 

 been no fresh run of either salmon or sea trout for some time. 

 For a day or two we amused ourselves with the brown trout in 

 the upper stretches above the foss, or by sea-fishing in the fjord, 

 where, in the clear water, we could see plenty of good fish only 

 waiting their opportunity of getting up the stream. On the 

 third night the rain came down with a vengeance as we were 

 smoking our after-dinner pipes, so we turned in early to dream 

 of good sport on the morrow. Next morning we could already 

 see from the verandah that the river had risen nearly two feet, 

 and, as the sticks and rubbish on the bank indicated that the 

 water was falling, all signs pointed to the probability of 

 a successful day. My host started for the upper water ; the 

 pools immediately around the house were left for his wife, 

 most skilful and accomplished of lady anglers ; and I had 

 the rest of the river down to the sea, an arrangement which 

 gave me command of the Long Pool, which, from earlier 

 experience, I regarded as a very likely spot to provide sport. 

 A little below the spot at which a cart bridge crosses the road, 

 about half a mile from the house, the river takes a sharp turn 

 to the right and, after brawling down a length of shallow rapids, 

 the water settles into a steady and somewhat rapid pool, deep 

 only on the south-west bank and shelving on the other, a pool 

 easy for a wader to cover with a moderate cast. I threaded 

 my path through a little thicket of alders which fringed the 



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