I caught five, weighing
between two and four pounds each, and stopped because my hands were
so numb that I could cast no longer.
Now for a long tramp over the hills and home. Yes, home; for yonder
in the white house at Drivstuen, with fuchsias and geraniums
blooming in the windows, and a pretty, friendly Norse girl to keep
her company, my lady is waiting for me. See, she comes running out
to the door, in the gathering dusk, with a red flower in her hair,
and hails me with the fisherman's greeting. WHAT LUCK?
Well, THIS luck, at all events! I can show you a few good fish, and
sit down with you to a supper of reindeer-venison and a quiet
evening of music and talk.
Shall I forget thee, hospitable Stuefloten, dearest to our memory of
all the rustic stations in Norway? There are no stars beside thy
name in the pages of Baedeker. But in the book of our hearts a
whole constellation is thine.
The long, low, white farmhouse stands on a green hill at the head of
the Romsdal. A flourishing crop of grass and flowers grows on the
stable-roof, and there is a little belfry with a big bell to call
the labourers home from the fields. In the corner of the living-
room of the old house there is a broad fireplace built across the
angle. Curious cupboards are tucked away everywhere.
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