ny English flies and leaders of gossamer are the tackle for such water
in midsummer. With this delicate outfit, and with a light hand and
a long line, one may easily outfish the native angler, and fill a
twelve-pound basket every fair day. I remember an old Norwegian, an
inveterate fisherman, whose footmarks we saw ahead of us on the stream
all through an afternoon. Footmarks I call them; and so they were,
literally, for there were only the prints of a single foot to be seen
on the banks of sand, and between them, a series of small, round, deep
holes.

"What kind of a bird made those marks, Frederik?" I asked my faithful
guide.

"That is old Pedersen," he said, "with his wooden leg. He makes a dot
after every step. We shall catch him in a little while."

Sure enough, about six o'clock we saw him standing on a grassy point,
hurling his line, with a fat worm on the end of it, far across the
stream, and letting it drift down with the current. But the water was
too fine for that style of fishing, and the poor old fellow had but a
half dozen little fish. My creel was already overflowing, so I emptied
out all of the grayling into his bag, and went on up the river to
complete my tale of trout before dark.

And when the fishing is over, there is Graygown with the wagon, waiting
at the appointed place under the trees, beside the road. The sturdy
white pony trots gayly homeward. The pale yellow stars blossom out above
the hills again, as they did on that first night when we were driving
down into the Valders. Frederik leans over the back of the seat, telling
us marvellous tales, in his broken English, of the fishing in a certain
lake among the mountains, and of the reindeer-shooting on the fjeld
beyond it.

"It is sad that you go to-morrow," says he "but you come back another
year, I think, to fish in that lake, and to shoot those reindeer."

Yes, Frederik, we are coming back to Norway some day, perhaps,--who can
tell? It is one of the hundred places that we are vaguely planning to
revisit. For, though we did not see the midnight sun there, we saw the
honeymoon most distinctly. And it was bright enough to take pictures by
its light.

WHO OWNS THE MOUNTAINS?

"My heart is fixed firm and stable in the belief that ultimately the
sunshine and the summer, the flowers and the azure sky, shall become, as
it were, interwoven into man's existence. He shall take from all their
beauty and enjoy their glory."--RICHARD JEFFE