MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



a spell, the lot of the hunter is an absolutely happy 

 one. 



One of the bulls we killed carried a head 48 inches 

 in span, which is good measurement for Norway. 

 He was, moreover, of the lighter - gray - coloured, 

 slightly - more - leggy variety, with longer spikes and 

 smaller shovel to the horns, a good specimen of which 

 we had not yet obtained, and therefore all the more 

 welcome in the bag. 



A splendid beast, in truth, he was, just under 

 20 hands in height at shoulder, and at least 15 hundred- 

 weight of flesh and bone and sinew. In imagination 

 I can see him still, as he came trotting, and whiles 

 galloping, through the trees, and then again as he fell 

 stone-dead in his tracks to the strong, compelling 

 order of a half -inch expanding rifle-bullet over the 

 heart and through the spine. For, to tell the truth, 

 I killed him in a drive. 



We had tramped the forest for some days without 

 a shot. Cow elk there were, no doubt, in fair plenty 

 to be seen, and now and then a young bull both of 

 a kind we did not want. So we held a council of war 

 after dinner in our Laerdal hut. The Ordnance map 

 was thoughtfully consulted. Ivor, Peder, and Johan 

 all took part in the discussion, while Rover whimpered 

 in his sleep before the fire, as if dreaming of the big 

 bulls he never tired of tracking. 



Thirty-six hours later saw A. H. and myself 

 posted in a thick belt of wood on the north side of 

 Laerdal Canon, awaiting events. A brilliant northern 

 sun lit up the dark shades of the pine-woods, the 

 open forest glades, and the distant fjelds. The 

 lemmings played around us as we sat, rifle on knee, 

 with every sense alert and on the watch. Some ten 



