nd pick out a few of the clearest
pictures.

III

Here is the bridge over the Naeselv at Fagernaes. Just below it is a
good pool for trout, but the river is broad and deep and swift. It is
difficult wading to get out within reach of the fish. I have taken half
a dozen small ones and come to the end of my cast. There is a big one
lying out in the middle of the river, I am sure. But the water already
rises to my hips; another step will bring it over the top of my waders,
and send me downstream feet uppermost.

"Take care!" cries Graygown from the grassy bank, where she sits
placidly crocheting some mysterious fabric of white yarn.

She does not see the large rock lying at the bottom of the river just
beyond me. If I can step on that, and stand there without being swept
away, I can reach the mid-current with my flies. It is a long stride
and a slippery foothold, but by good luck "the last step which costs" is
accomplished. The tiny black and orange hackle goes curling out over the
stream, lights softly, and swings around with the current, folding
and expanding its feathers as if it were alive. The big trout takes
it promptly the instant it passes over him; and I play him and net him
without moving from my perilous perch.

Graygown waves her crochet-work like a flag, "Bravo!" she cries. "That's
a beauty, nearly two pounds! But do be careful about coming back; you
are not good enough to take any risks yet."

The station at Skogstad is a solitary farmhouse lying far up on the
bare hillside, with its barns and out-buildings grouped around a central
courtyard, like a rude fortress. The river travels along the valley
below, now wrestling its way through a narrow passage among the rocks,
now spreading out at leisure in a green meadow. As we cross the bridge,
the crystal water is changed to opal by the sunset glow, and a gentle
breeze ruffles the long pools, and the trout are rising freely. It is
the perfect hour for fishing. Would Graygown dare to drive on alone to
the gate of the fortress, and blow upon the long horn which doubtless
hangs beside it, and demand admittance and a lodging, "in the name of
the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress,"--while I angle down the
river a mile or so?

Certainly she would. What door is there in Europe at which the American
girl is afraid to knock? "But wait a moment. How do you ask for fried
chicken and pancakes in Norwegian? KYLLING OG PANDEKAGE? How fierce it
sounds! A