EVER and anon we arrive at some landmark in life which stands out prominently for the rest of our terrestrial journey. Perchance it is one that, surrounded with pleasant associations, invites us back to chew the cud of past happiness, and rises before us as an angel of comfort from time to time, when shadows, storms, or squalls of trouble cross our path, or the hurry-skurry of advanced civilisation has ruffled our calmer nature, and we have become irritable and overstrained, liable to spontaneous combustion of temper, and less kindly than usual. Such a happy landmark is “after reindeer” in Norwegian travel. Let us, then, look back to it, and enjoy it over and over again; and may others derive equal pleasure from similar outings!

The 1st of August is the opening day for reindeer-shooting. About the end of July the enthusiasm gradually increases, everything is supposed to be ready, lists are gone over, fine weather hoped for, and the 1st of August eagerly anticipated. On our way to Gudbransdalen we stopped at Aalesund for the night; and what a night! We had hardly settled down to our aftenmad, or supper, before a servant came in to tell us of a grand sunset, which she thought the English gentlemen would like to see. We all rushed up-stairs, clambered through attics, and finally came out on a kind of platform; and what a sight met us here! The whole heavens were bathed in the most astounding crimson; at our feet lay the harbour of Aalesund, and on the horizon, out in the Atlantic, long ultramarine-purple islands. It was sundown in its most intense arctic grandeur, with a few golden scraps of cirri in the upper heavens. So impressed were we that we mused in silence; adjectives had no power of expression; and we tacitly admired with awe and reverence.

On our return to the table some Cantabs had just arrived, and finding we were compatriots, the all-prevailing subject of the latter days of July rose to the surface. “Were we going after reindeer?” was followed by a sort of mitrailleuse volley of cognate inquiries. They had heard of three Englishmen—did we know them? as they were anxious to meet them before starting. At last the suggestion was thrown out, “Had we not better go another time?” We thought not. Then they divulged the name of him they sought, and the Patriarch revealed himself, quoting the Duke’s Motto, “I am here.” General rejoicing, fraternity, and a skaal for good sport succeeded, and the next morning we all started off together by steamer for our happy hunting-grounds.

On July 31st we made our head habitable quarters on the high plateau of the Lesje Vand, and had time to enjoy the detailed study of the upper flora and berry varieties, which are numerous in this country. Thus:—

The ponies were packed with their curious birch-twig saddles, waterproof sheets for cork bed, deer-skins and air cushions, provisions, a small spade to trench round the tents, cooking canteen—a great work most cunningly carried out by the Tentmaster—lint, chlorodyne, &c.; steel nails to screw into boots for ice-work, vanters, or mufflers, long flannel night-shirts for cold, blue spectacles for snow, a little glycerine, telescope, compass, &c. Our beds were made with Iceland moss, waterproof sheet, cork mattress, and skins, and we slept in thick socks, gloves, and long flannel night-shirts with hood to keep off the flies. Hans Luther was with us, and Trophas the faithful, the doggie with sharp nose and curled tail. The tents had been sent up to the fjeld before us, and, after about six hours’ walk, we spied the white dot—the tent. In making the ascent to the upper plateau the gradual decrease of vegetation was very noticeable, culminating in the reindeer flower, or Ranunculus glacialis, which is much liked by the reindeer. Happy and buoyant with hope the hunter who finds the flowers nibbled off! Their peculiarity is to grow most freely where the snow has melted back. At the tents we found Ole of Lesje, whose first news was that he had seen a herd of about fifty reindeer, after which an important subject was mooted: a glutton had been seen the night before near the tent. Danjel Kulingen had been thirteen years after reindeer, and had never seen one. On the other hand, Hans Luther had shot one, and there was a skin at the station at Mølmen, which reminded us that at fishing inns on the banks of the Thames larger fish are seen stuffed and glazed than the itinerant angler generally hooks and lands.

All at once the dogs, three in number—Trophas, Barefoed, and Storm—opened a barking chorus; but we did not seize our rifles, as the telescopes revealed our Paymaster-general, who was returning from his chasse de bagage, which he had happily recovered. The aneroids registered 5,000 feet, and all was full of promise, save the one fact that the rifle of our friend was below in the valley. The despair and ferocity engendered by this unhappy discovery were soon dispelled by good food, and plenty of it, a word of comfort and sympathy, and last, not least, a little whiskey, after which he took a siesta in his tent, on which we wrote “Requiescat in pace,” and left our cards as a welcome. Being Sunday, we made it quite a day of rest, and revelled in the flora, mosses, and lichens of our new ground, always, however, with an eye to the glutton, which evidently had a day of rest also, as he never appeared. In the evening, at 6.30, we had a hunters’ chorus, for the Norwegian Sunday terminates at six o’clock.

Ole sang “Saga’s Hall.” Luther, with his sweet high tenor, was very good, and eventually a bouquet was thrown to him. The delicate attention seemed to be appreciated, although it was composed of straw and red labels from the tin cans of our preserved meats, &c. Then we had a bar or two of “God save the Queen,” and so into our tents. The next day we made a long journey, with much snow and heavy winds. In the afternoon we had to swim the ponies through a river—a very pretty sight indeed—the only drawback being clouds of mosquitoes. They were perfectly awful, and no avoiding them. We were even thankful to think we should not have them at home for a continuance, for the remark that we should soon get used to them afforded no comfort.

At this altitude we found the ptarmigan sitting about. The shooting of these birds does not commence until August 15th, and they seemed to know that we, as Englishmen, would not shoot before that day. So we actually threw stones at them, and one old bird, when knocked off the top of a large stone, positively came back to see what it was all about. Soon after this we discovered freske spör (new deer slots). The dogs livened up for a time. All soon settled, however, into steady travel again. Danjel was telescoping continually, but frequently a supposed reindeer turned out to be only a stone in the snow, till at last the Patriarch ventured to remark that there were “mange stor steen in Gamle Norge, og maget god telescope jagt,” which Danjel understood to suggest real deer instead of stones, and we should all have preferred, as it was one of the objects of our expedition, shooting reindeer to telescoping them. They are very wild, and quite justify the old saying, “Mange dyr, mange øine” (many deer, many eyes). Our course now lay from Buvalden due north, and we started in good time from Thorbvu for the snow ranges, leaving the horses and baggage below, we going as light as possible, with our own food for the day, and plenty of goat cheese. At lunch Danjel explained to the Patriarch that he should eat much goat cheese, for if he eat sufficient he should partake of the nature of that saltatory animal, and in time jump cleverly and boldly from rock to rock—an accomplishment in much requisition during our wanderings.

An incident of piscatorial interest occurred here. We sent a hunter, who had never had a rod in his hand before, down to a lake, or vand, to try for some trout. In an hour he came back with about twenty, averaging nearly one pound each. Of course he was not casting, or “flick” would have been the fate of the fly; he only trailed. Still his success was perfect, and he was delighted with his new sport.

The male reindeer are called bucks, the female ko and semle ko, and the young kalve. In the daytime they roll in the snow, and if they sleep at all, it is certainly with one eye open. Having seen and telescoped many large stones, and taken them for deer, there was a strong inclination to inquire more closely as to the probability of sport, and a suppressed anxiety to hear a definite opinion as to our chance of a shot, if nothing more. The hunter must be patient, persevering, careful not to appear even as a moving speck on the interminable expanse of virgin snow, and take his sport quietly, for better or worse. Our Tentmaster had made many expeditions, had seen many deer, and even when his chance came an impetuous—shall we say friend?—rushed out in front of him, fired, and missed. So tradition said. We are glad to state that this did not occur during our present trip. His successes arrived, however, after a time, and never will he forget the day when he killed his first reindeer. Long may he live to kill more!

Let us here give his first experience; so pray silence for the Tentmaster.

The Tentmaster’s First Trip, and How He Tried to Get a Reindeer.

“In the year 1863 I ascended the glorious Norwegian fjelds for the first time to hunt reindeer. What a charm is conveyed in these words, ‘first time!’ The first salmon or trout caught; the first grouse or partridge shot; the first meet at cover and burst with the hounds; the first climb up the snow peaks of Switzerland; the young beauty’s first London season, or first night at the opera or ball; and last, not least, first love, all have a peculiar zest never afterwards equalled.”

(N.B.—The Tentmaster is rather sentimental.)

“I experienced this feeling in August, 1863, when, journeying up the magnificent Romsdal valley, on arriving at a station I noticed a splendid head of reindeer horns lying outside the station-house. On inquiry I found that a Norwegian hunter had brought them down from the fjelds. I lost no time in searching him out, and soon arranged for an expedition together. I had no provisions, tents, spare clothing, or other appliances which my subsequent experience has shown to be requisite, but began the ascent with the meagre store of some raw coffee berries, flatbrod, cheese, and biscuits. The hunter (Dan I call him) could not speak English, nor I Norske; but we got on pretty well by pantomime. After a pleasant but toilsome three hours’ walk through the grand scenery peculiar to the Norwegian fjelds, Dan’s hound Passop (the reindeer hounds are held in a leash two or three yards long) suddenly squatted down in great excitement, with his nose steadily pointed to a huge rock about three hundred yards distant, and gave a peculiar low whine. Dan was down immediately, and signalled me to do the same. He was certain that reindeer were close at hand, but a full half-hour’s telescoping failed to disclose their whereabouts. Nothing could induce Passop to move; his sniffing nose kept steadily in the direction of the rock; while he occasionally gave us a most intelligent, imploring look, as much as to say, ‘Do something.’ Unable to see any trace of deer, we dare not move. Dan thought that wherever they were, there they would remain some time; so, with faithful Passop on the watch, we determined to have lunch. Not a bite, however, would Passop touch—not even flatbrod thick with butter. There he squatted, with his nose still to the rock, the model of a watchful sentinel. Lunch finished, Dan began telescoping, and soon discovered the cause of Passop’s agitation. The tips of antlers were visible above the rock, and in distinct relief against the sky. They were perfectly motionless; but we were quite sure, after many exciting inspections with the telescope, that a large buck was resting behind the rock. As the wind was not very favourable Dan said we must be quite still, and remain till we saw a movement. In my innocence I wished to smoke a pipe, but Dan forbade it. The excitement was increased by Dan saying it was a large buck, probably an outlying sentinel, and that a herd of deer was not far off, which proved correct. Our patience being exhausted, Dan, much to the delight of Passop, ordered a forward crawling movement; and, with time and patience, we got within eighty yards of the rock, where we determined to halt and wait. The tops of the antlers were still motionless. Poor Passop was trembling with excitement, and his companions much the same. In this position another half-hour passed, when suddenly Dan exclaimed, ‘Look!’ Passop became very uneasy, when we had the pleasure of seeing a splendid stor buck rise up and stand before us broadside, with his head turned to where we were crouching. Passop behaved splendidly, remaining perfectly still, while I shall never forget the expression of his eyes, and his occasional side glance at us, as much as to say, ‘Now then.’ Resting my rifle on a convenient rock, I took aim steadily behind the shoulder, pulled the trigger, and, to my horror, it missed fire. The buck heard the snap, and started off at a rattling pace; Passop struggled wildly to get out of the leash; and Dan exclaimed, ‘Gud bevar mig! Give me my riffel.’ I handed it to him, he recapped it, and fired at about two hundred yards’ distance without effect. Passop collapsed, and the translation of his thoughts into English was indicated by the expression of his face, ‘I have done my best!’ No doubt he had a clear conscience; and work being finished, he commenced eating flatbrod and butter with great zest. The inevitable pipes were now brought out for consolation. Wonderful weed—exquisite after a success, soothing after a defeat!

“We now made our way to a stone cave to pass the night, where we had coffee and flatbrod. The cave was just large enough for me to creep in, and I passed the night on dried moss, sleeping soundly till daybreak. The night being very fine, Dan took up his quarters outside the cave, had coffee, and slept soundly on dried moss too. After breakfast we started, Dan being sure we should find the herd. At one o’clock we discerned them, fourteen in number, taking their noonday siesta on the snow; but in vain we tried to get within shot. Next day we saw herds of deer, but without being able to get within range on account of the quantity of snow. On the third day I returned to the station, much delighted with my first reindeer-hunting experiences. Often as I have been on the fjelds since, the three days of 1863 have not been surpassed, although

It would be well here to say a few words respecting the tents and their arrangement.

A regular tente abri carries two very well. Of course there are more room and comfort for a single inhabitant; still, for general travelling, in which luggage may only too truly be described as impedimenta, the tent referred to may be used. Every morning, if the weather permits, the waterproof sheet and cork bed should be laid out to dry, and the skins also. The trench round the tent must be well looked to, the lines tightened, and the ponies tethered, as it is rather disagreeable to be awakened about two a.m. by a storm of rain and wind, and to discover your pony, with his linked fore-legs well tangled in tent lines, doing his best to pull down the whole concern on the heads of the occupants. Far more delightful is it to be aroused on a bright, crisp, and fresh summer morning, when, if near a sæter, the cause of it may be the jodelling of a pige in charge of the cows—Swiss as to character of song, exceedingly Norske as she calls to them to follow. In the country districts animals follow more frequently than they are driven. Kindliness is the rural, coercion the town influence.

Many of our readers will notice that under the initial letter at the commencement of this chapter, the powder-flask and general arrangement are very much like the old bandoleers still hanging in the guard-chamber of Hampton Court Palace and others at Portsmouth. They were most general in Charles I.’s time, and are beautifully shown in De Gheyn’s costumes of Culverin-men and Harquebusiers. In this case the bandoleer was made of steel, and it is faithfully rendered, with the cord by which the whole arrangement was hung over the shoulder of the hunter.

By this time we deserve sport. We have travelled far and worked hard for it. Let us see the result. We had arrived at a great height, at the snow-fields called Sneebreden, like the Folgefond in the Hardanger, We had slid, crawled, and struggled, sometimes moving one behind the other at an angle to reduce our surface, creeping on the crisp, dry, hard snow, wading rivers of snow-water (very cold tubbing indeed), sloshing at the edge of the snow, where the reindeer-flowers bloom, and going through various other incidents of snow travelling, till at last we arrived at a smart drop, previous to another fond. Here the Patriarch had to be eased down, and his pendent position is only suggested in the cut (p. 147). Soon Trophas began to draw upon some slots in the snow, and it was the unanimous opinion that they were “fresh.” Trophas pulled hard, held back by Ole, who eventually began to half trot. To the unsentimental mind the action was that of a blind man’s dog eyeing coppers in the distance; but Trophas was in earnest, and at last the top of a horn burst upon us, and in a second our fate was disclosed to us. There was nothing but the gralloch of a reindeer kalve shot yesterday—one horn, one hoof, &c.—as shown in the sketch (p. 148). How could it be accounted for? Many suggestions were thrown out, many improbabilities considered feasible, and at last a matter-of-fact mind launched the frightful proposition that the glutton seen by Ole near our tents the night before our arrival was nothing but a native hunter, who had been stalking us, and had killed the kalve of which the remains were now at our feet. Nothing daunted, we flattered ourselves that at all events we had now commenced in earnest, and remembered the saw that the worst beginning has the best ending.

TRAVELLERS in Norway are surprised, as they pass through the valleys, to see so few cows. This is easily explained. They visit this interesting country when these animals are away, like themselves, for a holiday; and as every dog has his day, so every Norwegian cow has her outing, and goes to the grass pastures in the upper plateau to enjoy life until the white mantle of snow is ready to garb the upper ranges and drive the cows and piger down to their homesteads and winter quarters. As already described, these sæters, or châlets, are high up, and frequently afford the energetic nature-loving traveller and genuine hunter cover and shelter, we may almost say comfort—cum very much grano, though. In snow-work it becomes almost luxury to have one of these to fly to in very bad weather. Tent life is the most truly enjoyable thing—though there are times when a tent may be blown down and soaked through—to say nothing of the milk supply at hand, which is meat and drink at all times, although very filling at the Norwegian price. This will account for our associating a sæter so prominently with our snow-work. The one given in our woodcut (p. 149) was inhabited by Maritz, who was there by herself from July to the beginning of September or end of August, according to the early or late fall of the snow. The 20th of August generally brings the first fall of snow in this latitude (63°). During our stay we always slept in our tents, as we all feared the parasitical ticklings the sæter would inevitably have afforded us had we given it the chance. All the summer through the old snow lay round the antiquated wooden building, and seldom indeed was it that Maritz had any one to speak to, as there was no road or path of any kind. Still she was all kindness. Did she not send a pair of cuffs to the Patriarch’s wife, and iron them, so to speak, after her manner, with the back of a wooden spoon, as she hummed a plaintive ditty in the minor key? Perhaps she thought the lady would hardly like to wear them, or else that they might find their way to some great people. Maritz, too, held to the superstitions of her ancestors. Thus her porridge swizzle-stick—which is like the West Indian swizzles, but larger—made from the five-shoot top of a young fir, was always prepared with a cross cut at the end or swizzling part of it, to keep the Evil One from turning the milk sour. This, too, she sent with the cuffs.

A little outdoor shed, or laave, was our general cooking-place, into which four of us sometimes squeezed, and, as the dogs filled up the interstices, we were as closely packed as sardines, the whole being seasoned with the oil of good fellowship. It is wonderful how invigorating this life is. What a system for a sanatorium! How well balanced should one become with such fresh air, simple food, and exercise, and with all the energy and toughness requisite for this work! It is inconceivable how kindly, obliging, and tender towards others a life like this makes us. Such was the influence of our head-quarters. Prosiness must be avoided, however; so another day on the snow with the hopes of sport, and no buck fever if we get a chance. Bad landmark that, if perchance it befall us. We hope it will not: if it do we will forget it.

For our line the shortest way would be across the vand where the trout were caught, and Danjel reported the discovery of an old boat of that class which has no iron nails about it, but all wooden pegs, and yet not particularly inviting as to safety, as the baling-ladle of birch wood gave the idea that whoever last used it thought it would be wanted by the next comer. However, as the hunters were agreeable and we could all swim, we determined to try it. So off we started, with ominous gurglings and washings to and fro in the bottom of the boat, fast, frequent, and furious. The ladle was heartily plied, first by one strong arm, then by another; but still the water came. This brought to our remembrance the Scottish Highland custom of baling the boat with a good large shoe, and that if you only take a pair the power becomes doubled.

Happily we arrived safely, and soon started for a long day’s work over unknown ground. The weather had cleared, and everything seemed to combine in our favour. There was a hearty good spirit among our hunters and ourselves, each fellow wishing the other good sport, and the dogs were keen to a degree. They longed for a revenge after the affair of the old gralloch, and flattered themselves that, if we were not unlucky, they would get fresh blood before nightfall. We were soon beginning to ascend steadily, and about an hour after starting, the Patriarch, working his way under some overhanging rocks, met with a surprise. An eagle, a large specimen, swept over his head and shadowed him. With his rifle in its case and across his back, the noble bird was safe, and the Patriarch delighted. Must there not be a nest? Yes, there was. Rough sticks and the lightest of down feathers were all that it was made of—rude, simple, and, one would think, uncomfortable for so grand a bird. Some of the down feathers were taken as a souvenir, and now and then brought out and floated, so light are they, in recollection of our having found one of the noblest of birds at home.

By mid-day we were out on the open snow, with hardly any rock shelter for stalking, should fortune favour us. The reindeer, however, were not “at home;” so we stopped at a suitable rock for lunch. How we enjoyed it! Old Trophas wagged his tail with a conviction that “no sport, no food,” would never be his fate as long as there was something left in our wallets. So we all rejoiced together, winding up with a little whiskey and hearty wishes for good sport.

Soon after lunch the tips of some horns were just visible on the snow-line. A large expanse of snow lay before us, with some small rocks half-way. Could we reach them? No; so we waited for the chance of the deer working up our way. Unfortunately they moved in the opposite direction, and our chance was gone. Still we had seen some, and that inspired fresh hope. Later in the afternoon we again saw a herd, and telescoped them for a length of time. Soon after this a second herd became visible, and it was most interesting to watch their manœuvres, which we did until they joined and moved off—of course in the opposite direction. An immense expanse of snow was now before us, and once we saw four herds of reindeer, and could count about one hundred and forty. For a long time we had hope, and agreed that if we could only get one we should be satisfied; but even that was denied, for the four herds gradually blended and went straight off, leaving us in the most perfect solitude, reindeerless.

By this time we had a long distance to travel to get back to our tents. Fortunately the light fades so little that it hardly signifies; still great care is required to judge of the best footing after leaving the snow, as the hunter leads, and can go any way, even to rolling down places like a hedgehog, and sometimes sitting down for a slide. Indeed, going home becomes a kind of steeple-chase over unknown ground. In such cases woe and grief must be the fate of the novice. At the highest elevation we passed an immense boulder, very much like the Logan Stone, and of similar dimensions, though perhaps larger. On the top of this was a much smaller one, but of different geological formation. This gave rise to considerable discussion about the glacial theory, as there was a non-believer present. What could have produced this remarkable combination but the action of glaciers passing over the surface, bearing huge masses of rock from distant parts, and, as the ice melted away, depositing them? These boulders were found at an elevation of 5,000 feet or more. We also met with a most interesting instance of pink snow, very marked indeed in colour. All these varied phases of nature did much to repay us for our disappointment respecting the deer. This the difficulties of the descent also made us for the time forget, as Danjel Kulingen was tearing away as hard as he could possibly go, sometimes letting himself down, then hanging on to the undergrowth of heather, sliding, rolling, or jumping. We often solaced ourselves with the idea that if we could only get him on the flat for ten miles for a finish, we could give him a spin and run him in at high speed.

Whilst we had been telescoping the deer our Aalesund friend was having sport. On our return we found that he had been over to our tent to see us, and had left word of “Sport, sport,” and a message to try for a meet. This, unfortunately, could not be arranged, or we should have seen joy depicted on his face when he described to us where and how he killed his first reindeer.

The Norwegians believe that the horns of the reindeer, boiled down, are good for consumptive people. There is no doubt that the reindeer themselves eat, or rather gnaw them when they are shed, which occurs in November. The males shed their horns first, the females retaining them longer. We found several horns partially gnawed through, and, when we consider the number of deer, there must be some reason why the shed horns are not more frequently picked up. The same idea of horn soup for consumptive cases occurs in Scotland, where the horns of red deer are also found gnawed. One would imagine that the best time for this potage would be when the horn was first formed, and the “velvet” is on, or when the horn is being renewed; and during this period it is very warm indeed, as large arteries run inside the velvet, or horn skin, and are engaged in depositing bone on the old stems, until the horns are complete and the velvet fretted off in September.

The reindeer, like ptarmigan, become white during the winter, and in their wild state present a great contrast to the sheeplike tameness of those possessed by Laplanders. The Laps have a regular call for their tame deer, which generally come at once; but if not, the proprietor has generally his lasso with him, which is thrown over the animal’s loins, and he is at once a prisoner. The good travelling pace of reindeer is well known, being about ten miles an hour, with two hundred pounds weight at their back. In their wild state their pace was beyond computation when we were behind them. We could well say that we had been “after reindeer,” and that is all. The only way to have sport in such a country as Norway is patiently to settle down to it, without fixing a time for returning. A river is not always right, nor the water in condition. So is it with the reindeer hunter: a thousand things may occur to mar his success. The very wind is sometimes wrong, and may chop round at the moment when he hopes it will hold on steadily for an hour or two; while, on the other hand, it may change at some fortunate moment exactly in his favour. No; there is no royal road to such sports as these. The charm of uncertainty must at all times attach to real sport. It must be worked for, and directly the uncertainty is removed its real charm is gone, and the relish for it dissipated. The mere act of shooting and killing lasts but a second of time; it is the surroundings which afford the real pleasure—the fresh air, the change of scene, the care required in every detail, the sportsman never knowing but that the very next moment some interesting incident may transpire which would make the day, hour, and spot a landmark; the necessity for watching every breath of air, the most delicate zephyr being registered and measured by the painstaking hunter, as he brings out tenderly some carefully preserved pieces of the finest floss silk, or, better far, some of the eagle’s down feathers already alluded to. Again, the dogs require constant attention; and, to be quite complete, a coronet of eagles’ eyes—optical all-rounders—would be an assistance.

FISHING for salmon, and the love which Englishmen have for that grandest of all sports, have led to the opening up of Norway to the general traveller. Our first pioneers, finding how importunate were the inquiries of the new-comers respecting the best spots and methods for sport, and that the inclination of some led them to try and bid above others for the waters they had really well earned by their own energy and perception—all this, we say, tended to make men on board the good ship Tasso rather taciturn. (Excuse the approach to an unintentional pun.) This, however, is not surprising, for men are compelled to be reticent when they know the inevitable consequences of giving details of their sport. Nothing will secure success but earnest work, patience, and biding your time for the happy combination which the best rivers can only afford now and then. Why, as we have just observed, the whole charm of sport would be dispelled if it became a dead certainty, and a man knew he would kill so many pounds of fish one day, and none the next. No; like the glorious uncertainty of cricket and hunting, the uncertainty of fishing is one of its charms; the average of good and bad is equalised, and the old French proverb comes in, that “Patience et longueur de temps font plus que la rage.” The noble salmon has become liable to increased and more subtle dangers within the last few years, besides his old natural enemies. The peasants have new means of torture. His natural foes are the bull-trout and sea-trout, which are the vermin of every river, destroying the spawn wholesale, and even lying in wait for the moment when the female deposits her milt, an instance of which came under our observation. The nets at the mouth of the river are an old institution, but they should be well constructed and supervised; also the tine, or stage, described in a former chapter, where the bonde is anything but the “sweet little cherub that sits up aloft;” still it is an old custom, and we like old customs. So also is the “worm box” which hangs from the peasant’s belt as he goes for some trout, or anything else that may be tempted. The worm box is a very primitive construction, its simplicity being well carried out in the birch twig by which it is suspended, and the two pieces of leather through which the lid slides. It is a picturesque relic of old days.

We now approach the recent diabolical invention of the “otter,” which, sad to relate, must have been introduced thoughtlessly by some one who little knew what damage he was doing when, for his own selfish gratification, he fell back upon so unlawful and unsportsmanlike an expedient. Even to obtain food such poaching is unjustifiable. Certainly enough could have been taken for that purpose by fair means. It is of no use, however, dilating upon this; the deed is done, and otters cannot be withdrawn now. If the arm of the law were stretched forth, “les pommes volées” would become more than ever “les plus douces.” Then, again, the kindly feeling engendered by good sport and a certain sense of gratitude frequently leads, at the end of a visit, to a gift of flies, perhaps even of a rod. In illustration of this let us repeat the case of the proprietor of a river who gave to Nils, his elve-wakker, a salmon rod and flies. Early in the season Nils began to avail himself of the new fishing-gear, and soon wrote home to his benefactor to say that the salmon were coming up the river, but that he had broken both tops of the rod, and lost most of the flies; would the gentleman kindly send out some more flies and tops to get the river ready for him? We do not think this was done; it could hardly be expected that any man would like all the salmon he killed to be landed with more than one fly, perhaps one in his mouth, one in each fin, and finally one in his tail. What an awful apparition for even the merest tyro! Such liberality is simply mistaken kindness. This brings to mind other stories concerning salmon-fishing.

It is often remarked that “truth is stranger than fiction.” When an M.P. fishing in Scotland played and held his fish all night, and on the following morning lost him, and a friend of his afterwards killed a salmon with one of the M.P.’s favourite flies in his tail, that was certainly an event, but hardly to be compared with what we are about to relate. In the large rivers of Norway a fishing may extend four miles, and the fishing next to that only three, so that different waters are let to different persons. In the present instance our foreign Izaak Walton was fishing the very top water, and, as good luck would have it, hooked a stor lax, perchance a forty-pounder. He played him firmly and steadily, but the fish after a time got the gentleman at the reel end of the rod through the next water and the next. Hours rolled on, yet still down they went, and by the next morning arrived at a shallow part of the river. A Norwegian peasant came up, and, despite the national dislike to going into the water, plunged into the river, and walked out with the stor lax in his arms—dead, and reported that he must have been dead for the last five hours. Nevertheless he got him, and a fine fish he was, with one fly in the right place.

The Norwegians have a great admiration and respect for a good fisherman. One morning, speaking of the average sport of the river, and referring to that of last year, we inquired if —— were a good fisherman. Knut answered emphatically, “No; he is a poor man, a very poor man.” We naturally replied, “But in England he is a very rich man.” “Ah!” said Knut with strong emphasis, “when he was here he was no richer than we, but the flies bite him much more.” What contentment! no envying, although a latent satisfaction creeps out, which decidedly evinces an undercurrent of thought.

Trout-fishing has the great charm of taking Piscator into the most lovely and retired spots. The salmon, as a larger fish, takes us to a grander scale of nature. The water of the cheerful little trout stream is changed for the rushing river, and the comparatively low bank sometimes gives place to a position like that in the annexed illustration, which was taken from above a grand pool, the Stige-steen, or Ladder Rock, connecting it with the side of the river.

Having said somewhat of fishing, let us now turn to the “aldermanic view” of the salmon, and hark back to a happy day when a lady had killed a nice fish, about fourteen pounds and a half, which was to be cooked on the spot: it is well to observe the process and make a note thereof. Cut the salmon in slices, and boil them for ten minutes; then let the water in which they were cooked boil on, with the head added; put in a little fresh butter, pepper, and salt, and serve as gravy or sauce. With a Norwegian appetite it is perfect, and very simple. N.B.—Fish killed at noon, served at two p.m. This is fresh fish, and contrasts most favourably with the frozen salmon which travels ice-bound to the metropolis of Great Britain.

Evening is the best time for fishing, and the long twilight, which helps the enthusiast for trout and salmon fishing at eleven or twelve, can only be realised by those who know the glories of the North. It seems a curious thing to take, when travelling, a green blind in order to exclude the light when wishing to go to sleep; still it is necessary at first, although Nature is so elastic that she readily adapts herself to circumstances, when the green blind can be given to some new-comer, or lent as a passing boon.