Big Game - A Story for Girls

"Might I? Really? Oh, please!" cried Margot, all in a breath. Her

very prettiest "please," accompanied by a quick rise to her feet which

emphasised the eagerness of her words.

George Elgood lost no time in following her example, and together they

walked briskly away towards the head of the dell; that is to say, in the

opposite direction to that taken by the other members of the party.

George Elgood had picked up his fishing-tackle as he went--by an almost

unconscious impulse, as it seemed--and unconsciously his conversation

drifted to the all-absorbing topic.

"If we take a sharp cut across this hill--I'll give you a hand down the

steep bits!--we hit the river at the best spot. You have been grumbling

at the wet weather, but you will see the good effects of rain, from a

fisherman's point of view. The river is full from bank to bank, rushing

down to the sea. It is a fine sight, a river in flood! I don't know

anything in Nature which gives the same impression of power and joy.

That's where Norway has the pull. Her mountains can't compare with the

Swiss giants, but everywhere there is a glorious wealth of water. No

calm sleeping lakes, but leaping cataracts of rivers filling whole

valleys, as my little stream here fills its small banks; roaring and

dashing, and sparkling in the sun. Norway is perfection, from a

fisherman's point of view; but there is plenty of sport to be found

nearer home. I have had no cause to complain for the last fortnight.

This way--to the right! It's just a little rough going at first, but it

cuts off a good mile. You are sure you don't mind?"

Margot's laugh rang out jubilantly. She scrambled up the steep mountain

path with nimble feet, easily out-distancing her guide, until the

hilltop was reached, and she stood silhouetted against the sky, while

the wind blew out her white skirts, and loosened curling tendrils of

hair.

Below could be traced the course of the river, winding in and out in

deep curves, and growing ever broader and fuller with every mile it

traversed. The sunlight which played on it, making it look like a

silver ribbon, played also on the yellow gorse and purple heather; on

the long grey stretch of country in the distance; on that softer blue

plain joining the skyline, which was the sea itself. A breath of salt

seemed to mingle with the aromatic odour of the heather, adding tenfold

to its exhilaration.

As Margot stood holding on to her hat, and waiting for her companion's

approach, she felt such a glorious sense of youth and well-being, such

an assurance of happiness to come, as is seldom given to mortals to

enjoy. It was written in her face, her radiant, lovely young face, and

the light in the eyes which she turned upon him made the shy scholar

catch his breath.