A MORNING'S TROUT-FISHING IN GALICIA 



The first roseate tints of early morning were beginning 

 to show above the summits of the Carpathian Mountains 

 when my young Austrian friend B. and myself shouldered 

 our creels and started off to walk the four miles or so of 

 forest-track which lies between the garrison town of 

 Sambor and the river Bystrzyca. 



It was a glorious June morning, and the forest glades 

 and valleys were filled with the melody of a thousand 

 feathered choristers. Every patch of tangled brake and 

 under-covert seemed to harbour a nightingale, and the 

 sweet lovesong of the thrush and of the blackbird was 

 heard amidst the delicate green foliage of the giant 

 forest trees. 



In parts the narrow forest road led through dense 

 growths of waist-high bracken, or a stretch of emerald 

 turf thickly spangled with wild hyacinths, pale-blue dog 

 violets, and star-hke wood anemones. In the open 

 portions of the forest were to be seen many acres of 

 heather-clad moorland, and more than once the crow of 

 a blackcock reached the ears of my companion and 

 myself as we brushed through the springy heath cover. 



At length, after seventy minutes of brisk walking, we 



arrived on the bank of one of the most charming mountain 



streams imaginable. Of crystal clearness, the river 



Bystrzyca, after leaving the Carpathians, winds its 



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