a solid week of rain, with every promise of more to follow. This
morning the rushing sound which greeted my waking moments was,
nevertheless, different from that of previous mornings. It was merely
the steady but strong flow of the river, not fifty yards from my
bedroom window, speeding from the wooden bridge to the mouth at the
fiord, half a mile below. Previously there had been variations upon
this unceasing monotone, and they were caused by the rain pattering
upon the leaves of an old ash outside, upon the shrubs and trees of the
little orchard, and at times upon the veranda and even window panes.

There is no mistake about rain in Norway when it is in earnest, and a
week of it is more than enough. It is true the nights have not this
time been so wet as the days, but what consolation is that when the
effect is to keep the river in perpetual flood? No; there is a vast
difference between three and seven days, on a salmon river. The lesser
infliction moves the fish and improves sport. In the days that are
left you may find ample compensation in superior bags. Now there have
been seven days' downpour, the river getting worse every day, and
leaving a tolerable certainty of three days' additional patience for
running down and clearing. But that is not the worst. I have said
that there was a difference this morning when I got up and looked out.
The sandy paths were dry, showing that there had been no fresh rain in
the night. Moreover, the hillsides were open to view, the silver rills
that veined the rugged steeps were dwindling, there was a blue sky, and
great ranges of wooded or desolate mountains were in clearly cut
outline--the first time since the wet period set in. Over the shoulder
of the huge pyramid to the east there was actual sunshine, and the
fleecy clouds were high. So at last there was to be an end to our
mourning; verily so, since the wind had at last veered from south to
north-west. Yet at this very moment, and it is still an hour short of
noon, a heavy storm is making uproar without, the rain is descending in
torrents, and there is the added discomfort of a shiver-breeding
atmosphere. At any rate, we are under cover, and need not issue forth
unless we choose. This is better than what must have been the fate of
poor S., who went to the fjelds just before the break of fine weather
to shoot ryper. He has been literally up in the clouds, and the birds
will have been lying so low as to give poin