SALMON-FISHING IN SURENDAL. 
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with an azure background. New snow, by the way, 
fell on these heights at intervals up to the beginning 
of July. In the evening the fjeld was merely streaked 
and patched; by morning it lay in unbroken white. 
The morning was spent in a scramble up the steep, 
hanging woods of the fjeld, by zigzag cattle-paths— 
each, to-day, a miniature water-fall—leading upwards 
through pine to brushwood and, above, to the zone of 
an alpine flora. Curiously, though by night these 
woods were vocal with a chorus of infinite redwings— 
and on dull, wet days they sang at all hours—yet in 
the bright sunshine to-day not a u Natter gal” was in 
evidence; though the efforts of cuckoo, willow-wren, 
northern tit, and woodlark, together with the ubiquitous 
sound of falling waters, forbade all fear of stillness. 
Under the first warm sun-rays the woods gleamed with 
insect-life—brilliant commas and fritillaries of three 
species, wood-whites, orange-tips, and many more— 
while grass-green hairstreaks vied in hue with an 
emerald flying-beetle. 
The rapid advance of summer and the effect of the 
first few hours of warmth in those higher latitudes are 
indeed marvellous. Leaf bursts forth on tree and shrub 
while one watches; on all sides is heard the cracking 
of the buds on birch and plane-trees, the unfolding of 
fern-fronds is well-nigh visible. But we are wandering 
from our subject, and must hurry down to the 4.30 
dinner, for the Norsk Sunday will soon be over. 
By a few minutes past six we were afloat on the 
beautiful waters of Gal ten, though the sun was not yet 
off the river, and swarming flights of sand-martins filled 
the air with evening evolutions. This favourite pool,, 
