52 
WILD NORWAY. 
But it is highly material, and of the first importance, 
to recognize that nothing more nor less than a living , 
moving creature (or the semblance thereof) will ever 
serve to move a salmon or attract him to the lure. No 
drowned fly drifting on the current, or towed tail fore¬ 
most by a slack line, will secure a second glance— 
nothing, in short, but these active, darting creatures 
(call them what you will) that salmon flies simulate 
when deftly “worked” across the current by skilled 
hand and limber rod. See it from the fish’s point of view. 
Deep down there, revelling in that rush of aerated 
waters, hard by the main stream, but slightly sheltered 
by some big boulder or rock-ridge from its fullest force, 
lies the big salmon, fresh last night from sea. Sticks 
or twigs, withered leaves, larvae or libellulae, ill-fished 
“ flies ”—the flotsam and jetsam of the stream—swirl 
by or circle in the eddies, all unheeded. Smolts and 
small fry in the shallows attract not—but, hulloa! 
what comes here? There, in the very vortex of the 
strongest stream, appears an object that at once arouses 
our erewhiles inert friend. His attention is riveted. 
To and fro in the current darts that bright-winged 
thing, now poising for an instant on feathered oar, anon 
with collapsed wing shooting sidelong from sight. Is 
it gone ? No; there it is again, and nearer this time. 
The strength and activity of that thing, rivalling his 
own, its power of stemming the stream, the alternate 
opening and closing of those glittering wings—these 
points clinch his attention, its flashing hues (discreetly 
selected) excite his admiration and cupidity. What is 
that thing ? To himself thus Salar : “ Starfish, I fear ; 
shrimp, I think ; herring, I hope.” (Goes for it with 
