Worm Box.

We now approach the recent diabolical invention of the “otter,” which, sad to relate, must have been introduced thoughtlessly by some one who little knew what damage he was doing when, for his own selfish gratification, he fell back upon so unlawful and unsportsmanlike an expedient. Even to obtain food such poaching is unjustifiable. Certainly enough could have been taken for that purpose by fair means. It is of no use, however, dilating upon this; the deed is done, and otters cannot be withdrawn now. If the arm of the law were stretched forth, “les pommes volées” would become more than ever “les plus douces.” Then, again, the kindly feeling engendered by good sport and a certain sense of gratitude frequently leads, at the end of a visit, to a gift of flies, perhaps even of a rod. In illustration of this let us repeat the case of the proprietor of a river who gave to Nils, his elve-wakker, a salmon rod and flies. Early in the season Nils began to avail himself of the new fishing-gear, and soon wrote home to his benefactor to say that the salmon were coming up the river, but that he had broken both tops of the rod, and lost most of the flies; would the gentleman kindly send out some more flies and tops to get the river ready for him? We do not think this was done; it could hardly be expected that any man would like all the salmon he killed to be landed with more than one fly, perhaps one in his mouth, one in each fin, and finally one in his tail. What an awful apparition for even the merest tyro! Such liberality is simply mistaken kindness. This brings to mind other stories concerning salmon-fishing.

It is often remarked that “truth is stranger than fiction.” When an M.P. fishing in Scotland played and held his fish all night, and on the following morning lost him, and a friend of his afterwards killed a salmon with one of the M.P.’s favourite flies in his tail, that was certainly an event, but hardly to be compared with what we are about to relate. In the large rivers of Norway a fishing may extend four miles, and the fishing next to that only three, so that different waters are let to different persons. In the present instance our foreign Izaak Walton was fishing the very top water, and, as good luck would have it, hooked a stor lax, perchance a forty-pounder. He played him firmly and steadily, but the fish after a time got the gentleman at the reel end of the rod through the next water and the next. Hours rolled on, yet still down they went, and by the next morning arrived at a shallow part of the river. A Norwegian peasant came up, and, despite the national dislike to going into the water, plunged into the river, and walked out with the stor lax in his arms—dead, and reported that he must have been dead for the last five hours. Nevertheless he got him, and a fine fish he was, with one fly in the right place.

Fresh Fish al Fresco.

The Stige-steen, or Ladder Rock.

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The Norwegians have a great admiration and respect for a good fisherman. One morning, speaking of the average sport of the river, and referring to that of last year, we inquired if —— were a good fisherman. Knut answered emphatically, “No; he is a poor man, a very poor man.” We naturally replied, “But in England he is a very rich man.” “Ah!” said Knut with strong emphasis, “when he was here he was no richer than we, but the flies bite him much more.” What contentment! no envying, although a latent satisfaction creeps out, which decidedly evinces an undercurrent of thought.