JUNE 133 



XXIV 



I had been fishing since 5 a.m. the charming series 

 of pool and forss through which impetuous ^ Hunter 

 Kvina hurtles on its way to the Flekkefjord ^^^p 

 — on the whole, I think the most varied and romantic 

 bit of salmon water over which it has been my lot to 

 stretch a line — and was returning about nine o'clock 

 quite ready for breakfast at our quarters in the village 

 of Liknses. Oh, those shining dewy mornings in the 

 'matchless atmosphere of a Norwegian summer; how 

 fondly and how frequently does memory dwell on 

 them! A cup of coffee (they understand how coffee 

 should be made in Norway), fladbrod (a poor parody of 

 Scots oatcake) and butter in the broad grey light — 

 then off to the allotted beat on the river, to spend 

 precious hours before the sun shall top the mountain 

 crest, strike the water and put a stop to the morning 

 fishing. Then home to breakfast, siesta, books and 

 letters till late afternoon, when the glare shall be shut 

 off the pools by the heights on the west. 



My homeward path lay through a wood of oak and 

 birch by the river-side and then across a space of 

 sandy heath. It was exceedingly hot by this time ; I 

 was tired and hungry; but something happened as 

 I was crossing the open to make me forget both 

 present fatigue and prospective breakfast. A hunter 

 wasp, ^ one of a numerous race very different in habit 



' Insects of this family of Aculeate Hymenopterce are classed as 

 Fosaores or Diggers, from the habit of many species of excavating 

 burrows in the ground in which to lay their eggs in food laid up for 

 their young. 



