“Og Trolde, Hexer, Nysser i hver Vraae.”
Finn Magnussen.
And Witches, Trolls, and Nysses in each nook.
“Hallo! what is the matter now?” said the Captain, who had been out with his gun that morning, and on his return caught sight of the Parson sitting disconsolate on the river’s bank. By the waters of Torjedahl we sat down and wept. “What has gone wrong?”
“Why, everything has gone wrong,” said the Parson peevishly; “look at my line.”
“You do seem to have lost your casting line, certainly.”
“Yes, I have, and half my reel line beside.”
“Very tinkerish, I dare say, but do not grieve over it; put on a new one and hold your tongue about it; no one saw you, and I promise not to tell.”
“How can you be so absurd?” said the Parson, “look at the river, and tell me how we are to fish that; just look at those baulks of timber floating all over it. I had on as fine a fish as ever I saw in my life,—five-and-twenty pounds if he was an ounce, when down came these logs, and one of them takes my reel line, with sixty yards out, and cuts it right in the middle.”
“Well, that is provoking,” said the Captain, “enough to make a saint swear, let alone a parson; but, hang it, man, it is only once in the way. Come along, do not look behind you; I am in a hurry to be at it myself, I came home on purpose, I was ashamed to waste so glorious a fishing day as this in the fjeld.”