SALMON FISHING. 69 



away the heavy dew from the grass and dwarf 

 juniper bushes, and drinking in life and health 

 from every inspiration of the fresh morning air. 

 My little boat tosses like a nutshell among the 

 high waves of the turbulent stream as it is swept 

 across to the other side of the river, where a ro- 

 mantic glade conducts me to the wooden bridge, two 

 planks wide, which crosses a divergent stream and 

 leads me to the now almost dreaded pool. A keen 

 salmon-fisher will understand me and forgive me if 

 I fail to do justice to the impressions, the hopes, 

 and the fears of the hour. The field of battle is 

 before me, white and tumultuous at the head, 

 smooth and black in the middle, full of surging 

 bubbles, like the ebullitions of millions of soda- 

 water bottles from the bottom, clear, swift, and 

 transparent at the tail. 



In spite of the roar of the foss in my ears, I 

 am under the impression of perfect stillness and 

 silence in the objects round me, so wild, solitary, 

 and secluded is the spot ; no habitation or trace of 



