: 
sians—a baby Viking, dressed in a pair of trousers which 
had obviously been made for a larger man, since he 
had found it expedient fo button them round his 
neck and thrust his arms through the pockets— 
uttered a joyful but guttural exclamation in choice 
Norske, which, although beyond my limited powers of in- 
terpreting, was fraught with a world of meaning to me, All 
was gall and wormwood now. To see that young native 
play that denizen of the deep was a caution, In the matter 
of strength between the boy and the trout, it was about six 
for one and half a dozen for the other. Pull boy, pull trout, 
with the final result of the conflict lying mainly in the en- 
during powers of the numerous knots in theline. ‘The elder 
of the two boys was at this time trying to commit suicide by 
fishing from a high rock overhanging a deep pool, and was 
too absorbed in his own affairs to leaye them for the fight 
waxing fierce behind him. Now and then he would express 
a philosophic remark on the subject of trout fishing in gen- 
eral, or encourage his companion with some such phrase as, 
“Hold on, Harold, he'll get tired in a minute;’” but further 
exertions from his precarious perch were not to be expected. 
Much as I longed to see the result of this contest, the scene 
proved too exciting for my neryes, and so, flingig my baser 
moods of envy to Odin and the gods that made them, I 
hurried forward to the rescue, and soon that little Norseman 
was gloating over a really superb fish which lay glittering 
among the stones and grasses of the bank. This was the 
first of several very pretty fish caught that afternoon by 
the two boys, and when I asked them how it was that they 
were so fortunate, the younger said, “‘Oh, only luck; 
some days we catch plenty, on other days none.” Ob- 
viously this was the former sort of day for them and the 
latter for me, so I purchased ihe best of their catch to for- 
tify myself against any satirical remarks which I might 
chance to eceiye from my fellow-guests at the farm where I 
was staying, and left that brook and its attendant water 
babies a wiser and sadder man. 
Perhaps more patient anglers than myself and those who 
care for such kind of fishing might do well with some pike 
lines and artificial baits. Certainly 1 never achieved much 
success myself in this way, but 1 met with a fellow traveler 
on the Laerdalsoroen Fjord who told me he had done great 
execution-with the spoon and minnow. Lake Miosen, for 
instance, some few miles novth of Christiania, is said to con- 
tain thirty varieties of edible fish, including trout, char, pike 
and a peculiar kind of fresh-water herring. It was on the 
shores of this lake that the famous hotel of six-courses-of- 
salmon-memory was situated, and when staying there I had 
some very fair fishing. Trying to find one day how deep 
tlie water was, I tied a couple of bullets together and let 
-them down by an eel line over the side of a small pier at 
which the lake steamers call. Down, down they went, and 
| paid out the line as fast as I could, but really there seemed 
to be no moré bottom to *his piece of water than there was 
to the dream of Bottom the Weayer. Nor was the mystery 
solyed until | discovered that the weights were close to the 
surface of the lake some scores of yards below my experi- 
menting ground, taken away there and upheld by the force 
of the current. I mention this for the benefit of brother 
fishermen who try to fish in the rapids of Lake Miosen. 
The subject of flies was ever a sore one to the angler— 
though I do not refer to those “busy, thirsty, curious” speci- 
mens which persist in singing oratorios with full chorus 
round his deyoted head. The skilled fisherman is, as a rule, 
content with a very limited selection of fies, modifying 
their sizes according to the state of the water and the differ- 
ent atveams in which he casts. Yet in Norway, where, as I 
have said, fishing tackle shops vie with the visits of angels, 
being few and far between, the fishermen had better be well 
supplied with many varieties and sizes. I feel sure that a 
medium-sized fly is the most killing, while perhaps decided 
colors—bright or dark—take best. But the well stocked 
angler will have little difficulty in finding this out for him- 
self, if only he pays due regard to the character of the local 
flies and does not offer the fish an object as big as a bumble- 
bee when he gees that they are rising at gnats and tiny 
midges. It cannot be well, however, to be too conventional, 
and somehow I always had a sneaking belief in the humors 
of fish. Why should not they also enjoy a diversity of 
moods, and study natural history from a bilious, nervous, or 
healthy view? Apparently such is the case, for sometimes 
they will be fastidious to an aggravating extent, and on 
other occasions so greedy and gourmandizing that they 
seem to wish like the alderman that their mouth were the 
middle arch of London Bridge and the Thames turtle soup 
—with an admixture of flies, of course, for piscatory taste, 
An amusing instance of this indifference to diet which 
trout display at times, happened to me once in Norway. 1 
was stopping af a place called Fagernoes, a bright little 
homestead standing on a promontory, which jutted out into 
one of the great bends of the Lillie Strand Lake, well justi- 
fying its name of “‘the beautiful headland.” One day, when 
returning from an unsuccessful duck-shooting excursion upon 
the lake, the idea occurred to me that it would be a pity to 
Jose the chance of trolling for a salmo-ferox which the 
prospectiye long row before me offered, and so I hunted 
about in tle lockers of the boat, for some means of luring to 
destruction the wily leviathan, Unfortunately, I could tind 
nothing but an cel line, with one very clumsy hook on it, 
and bait I had none. As I was determined, however, not to 
Miss my opportunity, I set about converting this uninyiting 
hook into a tly. The means at my disposal were certainly 
not overpoweriugly numerous, but they were sufficient, Cut- 
ting from the lining of my cartridge case a small piece of 
red flannel, I threaded this onto the hook, and fastened it 
securely with a thread of wool drawn from my stocking. To 
this I added a tag of white linen, and by way of finishing 
touch, an affectionate lock of my hair. This parody on flies, 
which would have aftrighted poor Izaak Walton into melan- 
cholia, and was an insult to all who respect the convention- 
alisms of the gentle craft, I then paid out from the stern 
of the boat at the end of the eel line, which, in defiance of 
all the laws on the subject, I made fast to the tiller handle, 
AsTrowed across the Jake I could see with much con- 
tented pride my addition to creation trailing in the wake of 
the boat, sometimes sinking, as my oars waxed lazy, then 
reappearing again in a frothing wavelet as they grew more 
energetic. I had satiated myself with complacent gazings, 
and was thinking of castles in the air far more likely to 
prove real than the one proposed to the fish for architects, 
when my attention was suddenly recalled by hearing ‘‘a 
mighty fine fish louping ahint me,” as the gillie remarked 
when his friend tumbled into the highland stream. Could it 
be that some idiotic old trout in his second childhood was 
after that monstrosity? The thought was absurd, yet as the 
leap was certainly in the wake of the boat there could be no 
harm in pulling in the line, just by way of government in- 
‘cause he would not Jet me. 
° oer aS 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
spection. ‘Blessed are they which expect nothing, for they 
shall not be disappointed,” and although in such mood I ap- 
proached that tine a touch on it was enough to dispel all 
moralizing. Jt was astaut and as obstinate to my pulling 
as though I had caught the famous bottle with the genii in 
il, or hooked & mountain at the bottom of the lake. 
since, if I wished to be consistent in my fishing theories, it 
was necessary to forego the niceties of playing my catch 
whatever it might turn out to be, 1 pulled with a long pull 
aoe) strong pull, and gradually my captive consented to 
yield, 
That was one of the gamest fishes I ever had to deal with. 
As Lhad nothing to humor his strength with, save by the 
constant bending of my arm, my reader may imagine what a 
lively time of it I had perched in the stern of my flat- 
bottomed drifting Norske craft, Like the Turk of fame, I 
had caught a prisoner, but could not bring him along, be- 
Ounce or twice he leaped over the 
line in the hope of snapping it, and a great fight he made of 
it altogether. But the inevitable end came at last, and when 
his path of glory had Jed him to reach the inside of my boat, 
I think that I felt rather ashamed to see go fine a ferox lying 
glistening in his armor among the muddy ribs of the boat, 
done to death by so pitiful a sham of Nature's handicraft. 
There was once a snake in the London Zoological Gardens 
who, in a fit of absent-mindedness, swallowed the blanket 
which had been supplied to him for his personal comfort; 
but of all things that creep or swim, my Fagernoes victim 
has always seemed to me singularly simple in his tastes. LI 
have met with seyeral such instances of the unsophisticated 
behavior of Norwegian fish, and I can assure my reader that 
they are as kind and courteous in their ways to strangers as 
the people of that most delightful of northern Jands—Nor- 
way- J. B: A. 
Durrncn, Scotland, July 21. 
A SARANAC ROMANCE. 
( NE of the literary deities, too potent a magician for me 
to dispute, once thought it necessary to remark that 
‘an unskillful fisherman is a most unloyvely thing.” Although 
he died a full century before my time, he must have been a 
sort of an astrologer, and had me in his mind’s eye as I ap- 
peared upon a certain August day long ago, when he penned 
his loquacious paragraph. I had been inthe Saranac regions 
for a week trying to catch pickerel and keep my guide sober, 
without any gratifying success in either particular. This 
especial Angust morning the miserable guide was saturated 
with whisky to his very collar button, and after wasting half 
an hour in vain attempts to awaken him, | left camp, break- 
fastless and disgusted, for a day’s fishing by myself. 
A few nibbles varied the monotony of the forenoon, but I 
failed to raisea scale. Afternoon found me dejected, hungry, 
sullen, completely out of sorts with all creation. I had put 
away my fishing kit and seated myself in the bottom of the 
boat, willing to drift wherever if might choose to go. My 
meditations, though far from profound, were suddenly in- 
terrupted by three of the most unearthly screeches that ever 
startled mortal ear, and they seemed to come from 
under the bottom of the boat. I nearly swamped the 
thing in a desperate effort to look under it for the 
origin of the racket, when, with a plunge that would have 
done credit to a hippopotamus, something, to me unseen, 
started for the bottom of the lake just behind me. This ex- 
plained the mystery. The destroyer of my peace was a loon, 
which had approached very near to the boat because of its 
apparent emptiness, He had suddenly remembered the 
melody of his voice and had tried it with the most awful 
effect, My efforts to make him out had heen accompanied 
with a quantity of noise sufficient to alarm him as much as 
his duleet cadences had alarmed me, so he had prudently 
sought safety ‘‘beneath the wave.’ Now my blood was up. 
It was bad enough to leave camp hungry with a drunken 
guide toasting his shins at my fireside, and it was still more 
exasperating to fish a whole forenoon unrewarded; but to 
have fun poked at me by an idiotic loon was the one thing 
unendurable, and I resolved upon revenge; that is, if he de- 
cided to come up again, as I fervently hoped he would, and 
I prepared my light rifle for his reception. Gritting my 
teeth and dividing mental anathemas between guide and 
loon I patiently awaited the next act. Just as I de- 
spaired of ever seeing my quarry he reappeared about 
a quarter of a mile to the southward. Rifle was ex- 
changed for paddle with silent rage, and a moment 
later the boat was gliding toward him, swiftly 
and fiercely. When I was within reasonable shooting 
distance and felt cautiously around for my gun, he observed 
equal caution and lest me staring stupidly at the spot where 
he had just been swimming. And so the chapter continued. 
For two hours that miserable pilgrim from the northern seas 
kept me boiling with rage, and determined to have him or 
die. At last my chance came; he had staid under longer 
than ever before, and finally bobbed up serenely within fen 
yards of me and about twice that distance from the shore. 
My rifle was dead on him the moment he appeared, and 
with grim satistaction I blazed away. But my weapon was 
like the Allen revolver immortalized in Mark Twain’s sub- 
limest epic; it failed to bring what it went for; bnt it fetched 
something else. Its confenis had been let off after a loon 
that was now sate in the bottom of the Upper Saranac; but 
judging from the collection of echoes awakened on_shore, 
the luekless bullet must have landed in the midst of-a Sunday 
school pienic. A score of female screams followed each other 
in quick succession, and then silence again reigned supreme. 
The consternation born of such an entirely unlooked for 
event held me motionlessin the bout with my rifle stiil aimed 
at the place where the loon was last visible, in a way that 
must have delighted the soul of that urbane fowl if he saw 
me from his safe haven below. The appearance of a young 
girl upon the beach, wringing her hands like misery persomi- 
fied, and entreating me to hasten ashore, broke the spell. 
Neyer did 4 boat go faster, and before its prow crunched in 
the sands, I was out of it and beside the frightened girl. 
“What is it?” [ demanded. 
‘Oh! sir, [ fear you've killed her; I daren’t go and look.” 
And then she covered her face. 
‘Where is she? Tell me quickly,” I exclaimed. ‘Tl 
look, anything is better than this.” 
“Sir, dont be alarmed,” said a quiet voice from the 
bushes above me, “‘Nellie is unnecessarily frightened; I am 
not injured in the least.” 
And here a wonderful vision of blushing loveliness ap- 
peared, to whom the little maiden who had just been play- 
ing despair to a bewildered loon hunter, flew with out 
stretched arms. 
“Be still, Neiie,” said the Vision, and thentome, ‘‘ Won't 
you join us, sir, and let me explain?” 
I was only to happy; bad as it might have been it was 
Yet } 
i — 
enough sight better than drawing moral comparison between 
drunken guides and evaporative loons. Upon the bank above 
the beach was a tent, some camp chairs and a bammock. 
The Vision gave me a chairand then took one herself, the 
little maiden still clinging to her, 
“We were watching you chase the bird,” said the Vision, 
“and were hoping you would succeed in capturing the pro- 
voking thing, when suddenly it came up between you and 
us. I was seated in the hammock reading a book when you 
fired, the bullet glanced up here, somehow, ruined my book, 
and then went tearing away into the forest. Poor little 
Nellie thought I was dead because in a moment of fright I 
tumbled over backward out of the hammock. It was she 
who did the screaming,” she added with a smile. 
I tried te apologize, but was checked. The whole thing 
was an accident and no one was to blame, she said. Neither 
would she let me go. ‘‘Papa and Jack will be here presently, 
and they will be delighted to meet you. We hayen’t had a 
caller before since we came into the woods; it seems rather 
lonesome after the bustle and whirl of the city.” 
Undoubtedly she was right, but as I sat watching her, i 
suddenly dawned upon me that she was very beautiful, and 
and I was sufficiently interested in her to wonder who 
“Jack” was, She was not inclined fo allow me much time 
for reflection, but kept prattling on about books, people, 
everything but her pretty self, and made me talk whether I 
would or not. Before the end of the hour which brought 
‘‘Pa and Jack,” I veritably believe that I was very much 
in love with her, and it was with genuine relief that I 
learned that Jack was only a brotber. 1 was introduced to 
the two as ‘‘a gentleman who is camping across the lake; he 
happened to stumble upon our camp a few minutes ago, and 
we prevailed upon him to stay and become acquainted with 
all hands.” 
The old gentleman smiled me a cordial welcome, followed 
by a heaaty hand shake, in which courtesy his son promptly 
followed him. No allusion was made by the girls to the 
shooting that came so near a fatal termination, while the 
older one secured the shattered book and carefully concealed 
it. In the hour that followed I discovered that I was being 
entertained by the family of Mr. Alfred Bronson, and that 
their names, given in the order of their ages, were, respec- 
tively, Jack, Alice, and Nellie. The mother had died when 
Nellie was a child. Their home wasin Boston, They had 
been a month in camp and intended remaining a month 
longer. 
T was compelled—somewhat. easily, too—to remain to suip- 
per, after which 1 departed for my own camp, which was 
all the more cheerless now because of the attactive little 
maiden directly opposite. Of course 1 was pressed upon to 
call again, and often—‘‘every day, sure,” my charmer siid. 
That night I dreamed of nothing but loons and pretty girls, 
The month that followed was the most delighiful ove of 
my life. Alice and I were constantly together; we strolled, 
sailed, and filled the lone hours in a thousand happy ways. 
Hach succeeding: day was a repetition of the day before it, 
excep that each seemed to draw us nearer together. A 
eynical woman-bater all my life before this, I now had hap- 
piness thrust upon me in spite of myself. Lucky dog! 
Father and son seemed to vie with each other in favoring my 
suit, and Nellie was equally solicitous. 
At last breakine-up day came; it had already been delayed 
two weeks beyond the stipulated time, owing to the fine 
weather; but now it had suddenly grown colder and camp- 
ing was out of the question for ladies. 
Alice was the last one I bade good-by; the others had 
crowded in first and then left us to ourselves. I tried to be 
at ease, but was somewhat choked up and diffident. She let 
her hand linger in mine as long as I wished. Apparently I 
had nothing to do but speak and she was mine, but speak 1 
could not. ThenI said to myself, ‘‘I will wait; it would be 
unmanly to compromise her without her father’s consent. 
l'll spend this winter in Boston, and settle the whole thing 
there,” Then I felt better. i 
Her people were waiting for her in the wagon that was to 
convey them to the railway, and I must not make them im- 
patient by detaining her too long. Both her hands were in 
mine, and when I stooped and kissed her it seemed to be 
exactly what she had expected me to do. 
Lleft camp the same day, the wilderness haying no fur 
ther charms forme. Alice and I exchanged letters every 
two weeks, mere friendly affairs, but letters still, and | was 
to visit them on Christmas. The interyening time, lone 
drawn out, was over with at last, and the slad day came. 
My reception was more than hearty, and I congratulated 
myself on how smoothly everything was running, when a 
dainty, foppish specimen of the genus home came into the 
parlor suddenly and unannounced. I was presented to him, 
but his remarkable familiarity with Alice prevented my 
understanding his name. His call was short, for which I 
was grateful. 
“Who is that gentleman?” I asked as he departed. 
“Why, can’t you guess?” ; 
J couldn't, but possibilities were beginning to generate 
cold sweat all over me. She tapped her foot carelessly upon 
the brass fender and then said, ‘‘'That is my betrothed hus- 
band,” 
Then it all flashed upon me that she was a mere maiden 
of twenty, while I was astaid old bachelor of forty-five, both 
etay and—bald. I didn’t blame her, but I left Boston by 
the next train. Lew VANDERPOERL, 
Cuicaco, Il. 
BIRCH AND PADDLE IN NEW BRUNS- 
WICK WATERS. 
YO SHELDRAKEH ISLAND. 
66¢\TAND four-square to the world for praise or blame,” 
says Sebastian Hvans, and we did it, doggedly 
enough, when by our appearance in the streets one Sunday 
evening, travel-weary, laden with our guns and game bags, 
and paddles and trusty birch, we scandalized the devouter 
Sabbatariang of the little town of Chatham, on the Miramichi. 
I say devouter, because I would have it understood that we 
also are devout. Buta twenty-four hours’ trip, with sup- 
plies to suit, had been lengthened to forty-eight by an un- 
looked for heavy gale which our craft conld not make head 
against, and now our ravening inner men urged us irresist- 
ibly toward home and rations. We might, had we been 
devouter, have waited on the wharf till darkness should dis- 
guise our street parade; but we scorned concealment—and 
ruined our reputations. 
Sheldrake Islund is situated about fifteen miles below Chat- 
ham, toward the north shore of the river, which at this point 
is, properly speaking, a portion of Miramichi Bay, and fully 
five miles in breadth. My friend O. and myself, being fain 
to stock our respective larders with duck and ployer, had 
