SALMON-FISHING IN SONDHORDLAND. 
67 
Still full eighty yards away, and in a bight beyond 
the two nearer stream-heads, it looked six to four on 
the fish, when at length the pressure slackened and 
he came fast up the flat once more. Then I knew he 
was mine, and, holding him hard up stream, in a few 
more minutes he was rolling in distress in safe waters 
hard by my shore. Still no signs of the gaff, and deep 
water to the very brink. What should I do ? I decided 
to take him into the smaller stream below, and this 
fortunately proving quite shallow, all doubts were 
dispelled as the played-out fish, in last resource, sought 
shelter beneath a grassy bank. A friendly native, 
attracted by my “siren” signals, here “tailed” as 
shapely a fish as ever swam, a perfect torpedo in form, 
fresh from sea, and scaling 21 lbs. The fight had lasted 
thirty minutes, and ere I had dragged the victim up to 
the bridge, the cariole drove up and I found that W. 
had been engaged in a simultaneous struggle and added 
a fifth fish to the day’s bag. This, a ten-pounder, had 
taken a small Jock Scott literally at the last cast of 
the night. 
Joy replaced the carking cares of the morn. Our 
first day’s total was five fish, all cocks, and bright as 
burnished silver, weighing 10, 23, 20, 10, 21 = 84 lbs., 
and we felt we had deserved them. 
“ And the night was filled with music, and the cares that infested 
the day 
Folded np their tents like the Arabs and as silently stole away.” 
Having ventured to send the last-named fish to the 
Prsest-gaard of Etne, next morning the good pastor’s 
pretty daughter called and presented us with a lovely 
bouquet of white narcissi and lilies of the valley— 
