of the richly spotted and burly bull
trout which runs up late in the season. He himself has killed one of
19 lb. My fish I at first fancied might be one of the breed, but it is
not, as indeed I see for myself the moment he points out the
difference. In the afternoon I flank this fine Salmo trutta with a
brace more--3 1/2 lb. and 1 1/2 lb., some compensation for a wet, cold,
blustering day.

The next day is hard, clear, exhilarating. The snow has spread out
rather than melted, and encroached still farther down the hillsides,
but the sun waxes strong as we drive to the upper water, and the bolder
mountains up at the lake are in dazzling splendour, and apparently
close. There is a wire across the stream, an easy means of crossing
for the ladies and gentlemen who inhabit the handsome fishing lodge
built by an English gentleman on the very edge of a grand salmon pool.
The stalwart Norsk gillie who attends him found it a trifle too easy
yesterday, for it gave way and let him into the river. The house-party
were making ready to leave, however, and the young ladies, who had been
doing well with the salmon, had the concluding excitement of their
favourite henchman floundering in the water to take on board the
steamer as a final remembrance of their visit. The toss by which the
lake water escapes is a magnificent commotion of white roaring water,
tossing at first sheer over huge rocks, then tumbling headlong down a
broken slope. Just below is a deep hole, always, however, in a state
of froth, upheaval, thunder, and spray. Away races the water in a
turbulent pool about fifty yards long, rough and uproarious on either
side, but more reasonable in the middle. Below are the rapids again.
The game is to kill a salmon in this pool. There is not much
difficulty in finding him, for there are always fish there, and they
take well when the humour is on them. By every right, human and
otherwise, Hooper should take first toll of this ticklish maelstrom; it
is called by his name, but, as usual, he insists upon his guest making
or marring the chance, and leaves me for other pools bearing the names
of brother anglers, members of that Anglo-Norwegian band of sportsmen
whose names have been welcome household words in these parts for many a
year. I confess I like not this pool. To command it you have to wade
out in a very rough shallow, amongst bushel-sized boulders, each more
slippery than its fellow. The din of the foss is deafeni