114 
WILD NORWAY. 
meadows, after a delightful twenty hours’ ramble amid 
the glorious fjeld scenery of Norway. 
The penultimate week of June was one of almost 
incessant rain, which brought the river down in opaque, 
blue-grey flood, seriously interfering with salmon-fish¬ 
ing, while it absolutely forbade all thought of al fresco 
existence on the fjelds. On Saturday, June 25th, the 
downpour easing off a little at midday, we set out for 
a small tarn named Bruxta-vand, which lay some six 
or seven miles among the hills. The writer must admit 
to an intense love of whatever is primeval—for things 
as created, whether animate or inanimate—and rarely 
can such conditions be found more accentuated than 
among the fell lakes of Norway with their wild sur¬ 
roundings and their unsophisticated trout. It is in 
their very innocence that lies the charm of these latter. 
I love to watch them—two or three of them—curiously 
following one’s fly on its homeward course, the boldest 
presently coming at the lure with a sudden dash as 
it leaves the water (one can actually hear his jaws 
snap) ; or to see a bigger fellow ascend vertically from 
the depths to inspect that strange insect that has 
alighted above his “holt.” A ghostly apparition he 
seems at first, resolving itself into a golden gleam in 
the dark moss-water as he nears the surface. Each 
fell-lake has some peculiarity of its own—some forma¬ 
tion of bank or bed that differentiates it, as a haunt of 
bird or fish, from its fellows, and adds new interest to 
its exploration. Each one in reach deserves the trouble 
of a visit. 
The present tarn was untenanted by water-birds, 
save some noisy greenshanks, a single golden-eye drake 
