A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



bridge below the house, I saw Mrs. Lort Phillips fast in a fine 

 sea trout in the next pool, and had the melancholy satisfaction 

 of landing it for her before pouring my woes into sympa- 

 thetic ears. Then I tramped uphill to the front door, 



" Quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore , . ." 



The other day I was reminding Lort Phillips of this never- 

 forgotten tragedy, when he related a somewhat similar incident 

 which had, curiously enough, befallen him on the same river 

 in the following year, when, by a happy combination of good 

 luck and skill, he managed to avoid a like catastrophe. He 

 had been spending the early part of the season at Alfheim, his 

 delightful home on the high Fjeld, where, in the upper valley, 

 far above the Sundal, he and his fortunate guests breathe the 

 pure mountain air among the soeters on the banks of a charm- 

 ing lake that yields heavy toll of large trout, pink of flesh and 

 excellent of flavour, whose worst fault is that they rise but poorly 

 to the fly. It is but a step from the stoep to boat or canoe, 

 and merry parties are constantly embarked upon the spark- 

 ling water at all hours of the day or night with one or more 

 rods, trailing minnow or fly to catch the fish, which are forth- 

 with conveyed alive to a stew in the garden, and there kept till 

 wanted for the table. It was on the first day after the return 

 of the party to Todal that the " Laird," with his attendant, 

 Gunder, who combines the accomplishments of engineer, 

 builder, boatman, fisherman and gamekeeper, was strolling 

 along the stream to see the condition of the pools, many of 

 which are either constructed or improved by artificial stone 



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