[10] ‘Take.’ This word is only used by poetic licence, and must not be construed literally. When we attempted to ‘take’ John’s whisky on our return to camp, there was a good deal of ill-feeling engendered, and he said that no one but himself understood the subtleties of æsthetic metaphor.
[11] ‘Öl,’ the ale of the country, ‘rare’ both in quality and, alas! in quantity.
[12] ‘Gjende fly,’ a fly peculiar to this lake, of which more anon.
[13] ‘Green fly,’ a charming creature like a large grey blue-bottle with green eyes; it bites a portion of flesh sufficient for its wants, and then goes away to eat it.
[14] ‘Bug.’ Again poetic licence. ‘Cimex lectularius’ has not been encountered during our stay in Norway this time; nevertheless he is not unknown in the country, as the sojourners in one of the Lillehammer hotels, not the Victoria, can testify.
[15] ‘Skeeter.’ The mosquito is a mournful and disgraceful fact; and so are the sand-fly, the stomoxys, and the flea. Memurudalen is more free from insects than any place we have tried.
August 25.—
Still the same glorious weather, rather too glorious for our purling rivulet, which has now dwindled away to a mere thread of water, while even the larger stream on the hill behind the tent, which we use for bathing, is showing a marked decrease in volume.
The Skipper and Öla went out stalking directly after breakfast, and Esau climbed up on to Bes Hö to shoot ryper. John went over to Rus Vand to fish, and had a pleasant day. He managed somehow to drop his native ‘tolle kniv’ into the lake, and of course immediately discovered that that knife was the most precious thing he possessed, in fact, the only thing he cared about in this world; though until it fell into the lake, he had regarded it with very unenthusiastic feelings—feelings of tolle-ration, the Skipper said. So he undressed and dived for it for a long time, and at last was lucky enough to recover it.
It would have been a pleasing sight to a spectator, if any could have been present, to watch John playing at being a seal all by himself in Rus Vand, or standing on a rock poised on one leg like a heron, with his head sideways and keen eye piercing the cerulean wave. And it was good to see his proud bearing as he returned to camp with the ‘tolle kniv’ slung jauntily at his waist, and carrying over his shoulder the scaly spoil snatched from the vasty deep, as we used beautifully to word it in Latin verses—meaning the fish he had caught.