80 
WILD NORWAY. 
still on even keel, and no inducement could bring him 
quite within reach. Then, without a moment’s notice, 
the rod sprang upright, the line twirled backward 
among wild-cherry blossoms, and the fish was gone— 
gone for ever ! The little Jock Scott hung unharmed 
on the gut; its hold, firm as its puny size could grasp, 
had simply worn itself out, and the strong gristle and 
sinews of the big beast’s mouth had given way under 
the strain and stress of the struggle, and of a three- 
pound pressure maintained continuous during an hour 
all but five minutes. Those five minutes would 
probably have served to kill this grand fish, had only 
the hold held good. 
It was a Sunday evening. As the end of the week 
drew near, we had been anxious as to local customs in 
regard to Sunday fishing—these varying in different 
parts of Norway. Erik told us we might fish after 
dinner; and Gjertrud, our laughter-loving handmaiden, 
who happily seemed to find something comical in almost 
everything we said or did, propounded the brilliant 
idea :—“ Yes, but you can dine at ten and begin fishing 
at eleven o’clock! ” There was a subtlety about this 
capable of infinite development, but it struck us as too 
refined, so we delayed starting till four in the afternoon ; 
the greater part of the population of the village, we 
observed, accompanying our stolkjaer or making short 
cuts through the woods. When I commenced to cast 
Stein-pool from the platform, there was an audience of 
thirty-four folks, lads and lassies, old men and maidens, 
assembled on the bank behind. 
Stein-pool is dead and deep, with a moderate stream 
running in beyond mid-river, and the fish lying well in 
