Personal Reminiscences in Book Making by Robert Michael Ballantyne (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📖

salmon abound in Norway, and the river beds are very rugged.

In that land fishing cannot be styled the "gentle art." It is a tearing, wearing, rasping style of work. An account of the catching of one fish will prove this.

One morning I had gone off to fish by myself, with a Norwegian youth to gaff and carry the fish. Coming to a sort of weir, with a deep pool above and a riotous rapid below, I put on a salmon fly and cast into the pool. At once a fish rose and was hooked. It was not a big one--only 12 pounds or thereabouts--but quite big enough to break rod and line if not played respectfully.

For some time, as is usual with salmon, he rushed about the pool, leaped out of the water, and bored up stream. Then he took to going down stream steadily. Now this was awkward, for when a fish of even that size resolves to go down stream, nothing can stop him. My efforts were directed to turning him before he reached the rapid, for, once into that, I should be compelled to follow him or break the line--perhaps the rod also.

At last he reached the head of the rapid. I put on a heavy strain. The rod bent like a hoop and finally began to crack, so I was compelled to let him go.

At the lower end of the pool there was a sort of dam, along which I ran, but soon came to the end of it, where it was impossible to reach the shore owing to the dense bushes which overhung the stream. But the fish was now in the rapid and was forced down by the foaming water. Being very unwilling to break the line or lose the fish, I went slowly into the rapid until the water reached the top of my long wading boots-- another step and it was over them, but that salmon would not--indeed could not--stop. The water filled my boots at once, and felt very cold at first, but soon became warm, and each boot was converted into a warmish bath, in which the legs felt reasonably comfortable.

I was reckless now, and went on, step by step, until I was up to the waist, then to the arm-pits, and then I spread out one arm and swam off while with the other I held up the rod.

The rapid was strong but deep, so that nothing obstructed me till I reached the lower end, when a rock caught my legs and threw me into a horizontal position, with the rod flat on the water. I was thrown against the bank, where my Norwegian boy was standing mouth open, eyes blazing, and hand extended to help me out.

When I stood panting on the bank, I found that the fish was still on and still inclined to descend, but I found that I could not follow, for my legs were heavy as lead--the boots being full of water. To take the latter off in a hurry and empty them was impossible. To think of losing the fish after all was maddening. Suddenly a happy thought struck me. Handing the rod to the boy I lay down on my back, cocked my legs in the air, and the water ran like a deluge out at the back of my neck! Much relieved, I resumed the rod, but now I found that the fish had taken to sulking.

This sulking is very perplexing, for the fish bores its nose into some deep spot below a stone, and refuses to budge. Pulling him this way and that way had no effect. Jerking him was useless. Even throwing stones at him was of no avail. I know not how long he kept me there, but at last I lost patience, and resolved to force him out, or break the line. But the line was so good and strong that it caused the rod to show symptoms of giving way.

Just then it struck me that as there were several posts of an old weir in the middle of the stream, he must have twisted the line round one of these, broken himself off and left me attached to it! I made up my mind therefore to wade out to the old weir, and unwind the line, and gave the rod to the boy to hold while I did so.

The water was deep. It took me nearly up to the neck before I reached the shallow just above the posts, but, being thoroughly wet, that did not matter.

On reaching the post, and unwinding the line, I found to my surprise that the fish was still there. At first I thought of letting go the line, and leaving the boy to play him; "but," thought I, "the boy will be sure to lose him," so I held on to the line, and played it with my hands. Gradually the fish was tired out. I drew him slowly to my side, and gaffed him in four feet of water.

Even then I was not sure of him, for when I got him under one arm he wriggled violently, so that it was difficult to wade ashore with him. In this difficulty I took him to a place where the shoal in the middle of the stream was about three inches deep. There I lay down on him, picked up a stone and hammered his head with it, while the purling water rippled pleasantly over my face.

The whole of this operation took me upwards of two hours. It will be seen, therefore, that fishing in Norway, as I have said, cannot be called "the gentle art."

One extremely interesting excursion that we made was to a place named the Esse Fjord. The natives here were very hospitable and kind. Besides that, they were fat! It would almost seem as if fat and good-humour were invariably united; for nearly all the natives of the Esse Fjord were good-humoured and stout!

The language at this place perplexed me not a little. Nevertheless the old proverb, "where there's a will there's a way," held good, for the way in which I conversed with the natives of that region was astounding even to myself.

One bluff, good-humoured fellow took me off to see his house and family. I may as well admit, here, that I am not a good linguist, and usually left our ladies to do the talking! But on this occasion I found myself, for the first time, alone with a Norwegian! fairly left to my own resources.

Well, I began by stringing together all the Norse I knew, (which wasn't much), and endeavoured to look as if I knew a great deal more. But I soon found that the list of sentences, which I had learned from Murray's _Handbook_, did not avail much in a lengthened conversation. My speech quickly degenerated into sounds that were almost unintelligible to either my new friend or myself! and I terminated at last in a mixture of bad Norse and broad Scotch. I have already remarked on the strong family-likeness between Norse and broad Scotch. Here are a few specimens.

They call a cow a _coo_! A house is a _hoose_, and a mouse is a _moose_! _Gaae til land_, is go to land, or go ashore. _Tak ain stole_ is take a stool, or sit down. Vil du tak am dram? scarcely needs translation--will you take a dram! and the usual answer to that question is equally clear and emphatic--"Ya, jeg vil tak am dram!" One day our pilot saw the boat of a fisherman, (or fiskman), not far off. He knew we wanted fish, so, putting his hands to his mouth, he shouted "Fiskman! har du fisk to sell?" If you talk of bathing, they will advise you to "dook oonder;" and should a mother present her baby to you, she will call it her "smook barn"--her pretty bairn--smook being the Norse word for "pretty," and _barn_ for child; and it is a curious fact, worthy of particular note, that all the mothers in Norway think their bairns smook--very smook! and they never hesitate to tell you so--why, I cannot imagine, unless it be that if you were not told you would not be likely to find it out for yourself.

Despite our difficulty of communication, my fat friend and I soon became very amicable and talkative. He told me no end of stories, of which I did not comprehend a sentence, but looked as if I did--smiled, nodded my head, and said "ya, ya,"--to which he always replied "ya, ya,"--waving his arms, and slapping his breast, and rolling his eyes, as he bustled along beside me towards his dwelling. The house was perched on a rock close to the water's edge. Here my host found another subject to expatiate upon and dance round, in the shape of his own baby, a soft, smooth, little imitation of himself, which lay sleeping in its crib, like a small cupid. The man was evidently extremely fond of this infant. He went quite into ecstasies about it; now gazing at it with looks of pensive admiration; anon, starting and looking at me as if to say, "_Did you ever, in all your life, see such a beautiful cherub_?" The man's enthusiasm was really catching--I began to feel quite a fatherly interest in the cherub myself.

"Oh!" he cried, in rapture, "det er smook barn!"

"Ya, ya," said I, "megit smook," (very pretty)--although I must confess that _smoked_ bairn would have been nearer the mark, for it was as brown as a red-herring.

I spent an agreeable, though I must confess mentally confused, afternoon with this gentleman, who, (when he succeeded in tearing himself away from that much-loved and megit smook barn), introduced me to his two sisters, who were stout and good-humoured like himself. They treated me to a cup of excellent coffee, and to a good deal more of incomprehensible conversation. Altogether, the natives of the Esse Fjord made a deep impression on us, and we parted from their grand and gloomy but hospitable shores with much regret.

I had hoped, good reader, to have jotted down some more of my personal reminiscences of travel--in Algiers, the "Pirate City," at the Cape of Good Hope, and elsewhere--but bad health is not to be denied, and I find that I must hold my hand.

Perchance this may be no misfortune, for possibly the "garrulity of age" is descending on me!

Before closing this sketch, however, I would say briefly, that in all my writings I have always tried--how far successfully I know not--to advance the cause of Truth and Light, and to induce my readers to put their trust in the love of God our Saviour, for this life as well as the life to come.


CHAPTER SEVEN.


THE BURGLARS AND THE PARSON.

A Country mansion in the south of England. The sun rising over a laurel-hedge, flooding the ivy-covered walls with light, and blazing in at the large bay-window of the dining-room.

"Take my word for it, Robin, if ever this 'ouse is broke into, it will be by the dinin'-room winder."

So spake the gardener of the mansion--which was also the parsonage--to his young assistant as they passed one morning in front of the window in question. "For why?" he continued; "the winder is