"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.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158