240 
WILD NORWAY. 
trotting towards me through the trees. At first 
I thought it was a hare, but when it came within fifty 
paces, I knew it was a Goup. It fell when I fired, but 
recovered, and I fired four more shots. Then it was 
dead. It was a male, with beautiful skin, and larger 
than a goat.” 
Sad is that final morning when camp is broken up,, 
when beds and baggage are rolled in their canvas-covers, 
the kit piled on packhorse or human shoulders. We have 
come to love those lonely little huts. Thence for thirty 
mornings we have set forth full of keen hope and 
eagerness ; for thirty nights their flickering light has 
been the hunter’s welcome beacon. To-night Per-Sseter 
will be but a memory. Passing the well-engineered 
bathing pool, we note that thick ice this morning covers 
the dam. A last turn through the woods for a few 
grouse or a stray caper, then guns are encased and the 
homeward journey is begun. Less easy, this, than the 
outward, for midnight suns and tourists have long- 
departed, and with them fast yachting-steamers and 
frequent services, with reliable connections. Fjord 
navigation in the dark is precarious, and fogs frequent 
the big boats on through-routes are often a day or two 
—sometimes a week—behind time, and the small craft 
that ply on the “ inner leads ” (not lighted) must anchor 
nearly every night and await the dawn. He who seeks 
sport late in this northern land, must lay his account 
for delays, and some little roughing—as when the choice 
lies between sleeping on the table of a coaster, or making 
a forced dash of forty miles in the dark, under solid 
rain or snow : carioling all night to catch a weekly- 
