70 
WILD NORWAY. 
roared the foss, where the whole volume of Etne 
thundered down in majestic ruin over black rock-barriers, 
swirling and fretting, to the troubled pool beneath. 
In the gloomy ravine, birch-surmounted and half- 
obscured by reek and spray, the angler’s vision was 
none too clear: especially was this the case in the dim 
mysterious twilight—what time woodcocks flew piping 
A SALMON-POOL, SHOWING CASTING-STAGES. 
overhead. Hence, after fishing down the pool, I was 
hardly surprised when Lars, perched fifty feet above, 
came down to tell me I had moved a salmon—a “ meget 
stor lax,” close below the neck. Half an hour later I 
tried him again. This time the roll of back and dorsal 
fin,-and the plunge of a shovel-shaped tail as he dived, 
were clearly seen amidst the boiling waters. The fish 
was firm hooked, and I held him hard, fearing a run 
