A BOOK OF FISHING STORIES 



the account of a red-letter trout-fishing day. The scene is 

 a rocky-sided open fjeld-valley in Norway two thousand feet 

 or so above the sea. The invigorating fjeld air on these breezy 

 open uplands is a joy to breathe. Around us are the rein- 

 deer fjelds of the Dovre Fjeld, whitened here and there by 

 snow glaciers. Rocky peaks and clear-cut mountain ridges 

 surround us and jut up into the sky, sometimes shrouded in 

 mist, or perhaps bathed in the glorious summer sunshine of 

 the North. At the head of the valley in question was a long 

 narrow lake, near the summit of the watershed, and distin- 

 guished by the size and flavour of its trout. On its shores 

 was a comfortable fishing lodge, where relays of our party 

 used to come in turn, some for sketching and climbing, others 

 for trout-fishing, and all for the enjoyment of the fresh moun- 

 tain air. 



One day stands out distinct in my memory, when the air 

 was soft and clear ; occasional fleecy clouds concealed a bril- 

 liant sun, and a gentle breeze, ruffling the surface of lake and 

 river-pool, made the trout an easier prey to a light- thrown 

 artificial fly. 



From the lower end of the lake a clear-running mountain 

 stream, widening out here and there into long, deep and rocky 

 pools, ran meandering through the valley down to great falls 

 below, and then rushed onward through deep gorges to the 

 salmon river miles away. The portion of the stream from 

 the lake to the falls, about four miles or so in length, was famous 

 for the number of its trout ; and so we were bent on beating 

 all records that day, if possible, both for numbers and for 



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