T H E
G A M E F I S H,
OF THE
Northern States and British Provinces.

WITH AN
ACCOUNT OF THE SALMON AND SEA-TROUT FISHING OF CANADA AND NEW BRUNSWICK, TOGETHER WITH SIMPLE DIRECTIONS FOR TYING ARTIFICIAL FLIES, ETC., ETC.
By ROBERT BARNWELL ROOSEVELT,

AUTHOR OF “SUPERIOR FISHING,” “THE GAME BIRDS OF THE NORTH,” “FIVE ACRES TOO MUCH,” “POLYANTHUS,” ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED.

NEW YORK:
ORANGE JUDD COMPANY,
751 B R O A D W A Y.
1884.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by the
ORANGE JUDD COMPANY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

PREFACE.

I have said in the first paragraph of this book that a preface is a sort of apology, and viewing it in that light, my apology for writing this, is to explain that the demand for a new edition seems to be so large that I ought to comply with it. In doing so, a great deal of fresh matter has been added to the original text, and the information and directions have been brought down to the present time. The portion relating to the propagation of fish has been entirely remodelled and rewritten, so that nothing of the original matter has been left. That was composed before the art of fish-culture had been developed, and before a single fishery commission had been appointed in this country. Considerable advance has also been made in the matter of tackle, rods, and reels, all of which are far better manufactured now in this country, than in any other part of the world, even in that birth-place of the fishing art, England herself.

Having always been an enthusiast with rod and gun, attributing to the sports of the field and stream the retention of good health amid confining and sedentary occupations, I made the preparation of this work a labor of love, and have with time come to be more than ever impressed with the importance of out-door recreations. Inspiration acquired from the woods and streams, and vigor earned by exercise in the pure air of heaven are good for the soul as well as for the body.

Take sportsmen all in all, and there is not only a better physical condition noticeable in their muscles, but they bear a more universal humanity in their hearts than is to be found with mere business men or even among the literary or learned. A sympathy exists between them not often to be found in other classes of the community. Their grasp of welcome seems more hearty, and their expressions of interest more sincere. Certainly I have received more cordial kindness from them than from any other people whom I have ever met.

I was one of the first to press on the State and National Governments the importance of establishing fishery commissions, and being myself appointed on that of the State of New York when it was created, in the year 1867, and having remained on it ever since, I have necessarily kept up with the times, and all improvements which have been made either in the science of fish-culture or in the tools and methods of fishing.

Looking back, and still more I may say, looking forward to what the future will bring forth, I have a right to claim that in aiding the cultivation and protection of the objects of the sportsman’s pursuit, and the means of his pleasure, in protesting against their unreasonable and improper slaughter, and in describing the most legitimate and scientific methods, and taking them, I have conferred some advantage upon mankind as well as amused some idle hours.

The Author.

March, 1884.

GAME FISH.

CHAPTER I.
INSTRUCTION.

I have always considered a preface or introduction a species of apology, and not intending that the following sketches shall need any apology, I shall write no introduction; but an explanation of the scientific distinctions and divisions of fishes may not only be appropriate but highly instructive, if my readers be as ignorant as I think them.

It has been a matter of serious reproach by the naturalists against the sportsmen, that the latter, instead of adopting a uniform nomenclature, call a bird or fish in one section of our country by a different name from that under which it is known in another; that a Quail and Black Bass at the North become a Partridge and Trout at the South. The sportsmen, conscious of the justness of the reproach, have submitted quietly to the learned stones of reproof hurled at them, and scarcely dared to suggest that their persecutors lived in the most fragile of glass houses; that naturalists were liable to the same accusation, and that there is hardly a fish, bird or beast that they have not called by several different names. Are not the contentions of Ortyx and Perdrix known to all? Is it quite certain, when we catch an Otsego Bass, whether we catch a Coregonus Otsego or a Coregonus Albus, or even a Salmo Otsego? Is it perfectly ascertained from a scientific point of view that we catch anything? Who does not know that a Tautog is a Blackfish, or would be materially instructed by hearing him called a Tautoga Americana? Scientific men vie with one another in creating new names, the most useless things in Christendom; while sportsmen are happy to take them, the game, as they find them. The first are guilty of faults of commission, the latter of omission. The language of each is Greek to the other.

The writer of these sketches, knowing just sufficient Greek to be a sportsman, and yet able to translate with the help of a dictionary, offers, from the want of one more worthy, to conciliate all differences. His plan is to translate all terms that are translatable, and to omit altogether those that are not, trusting that they will never be missed. His intention at first was to write a noble work on natural history that would carry his name in letters of gold, as a public reformer and benefactor, to latest posterity; but finding, on reviewing his stores of information, that he knew but little on the subject, he was compelled to relinquish the idea. Being therefore nothing but a gentle angler, instead of instructing the universe, he is content to amuse a small circle of lovers of sporting anecdotes, and, provided he receives it, will be content with their approval. As, however, one fool can always teach another something, the writer feels impelled to mingle a little instruction in doses to suit the weakest stomach, that those who have not skipped this chapter on account of its title, may at least receive something for their perseverance. They need not suppose for a moment that the writer pretends to insist upon what he shall write as infallible, but where his readers differ from him, is perfectly willing to admit that he is entirely mistaken; the buyer of a book is always right, the author a toujours tort.

He supposes—let there be no misunderstandings when he accidentally uses a stronger word—that fishes are divided into two great orders, and are distinguished as having bony or cartilaginous skeletons; thus a quawl, provided he be a fish at all, would be a very cartilaginous one, and a catfish with his back fin erected, as the writer has often learned to his cost, is a bony fish.

As the cartilaginous fish are of small account, the reader may forget all about them if he wishes, but he is requested to remember the useful division of those having bony skeletons into the great classes, easily distinguished, of the soft finned and spiny finned, called in foreign languages by the horrible terms malacopterygii and acanthopterygii—terms unpronounceable except by a Dutchman or a philosopher. These classes are distinguished, as the English words imply, by their having the rays of their fins soft and flexible or hard and spine-like. The investigator may determine their peculiarities by pressing strongly upon the points of the fin rays; if nature intimates that his organism is suffering, the fish is a acanthop, etc.; if not, why not.

The location of the fins of the fish mark the subdivisions of the families. The above diagram being supposed to represent a fish, and a Trout at that, G is the first back or dorsal fin, F the second—in the case of this species, mere rayless, fatty matter; E is the tail fin or caudal—the writer, as a married man, naturally avoiding the latter term on account of its suggestiveness; D is the anal fin, for which the writer can offer no English substitute; C are the two ventrals or belly fins; B is the pectoral or shoulder fin, having a complemental one on the other side of the fish; and A represents what in learned language are called branchiostegous rays, a name that, being translated, means merely gill-rays. What is not in a name! H is the lateral line. Then bearing in mind the great divisions of soft and hard finned, the subdivisions are distinguished by the fish having the ventrals behind the pectorals and on the abdomen, giving them the name of abdominal fish, or before the pectorals, giving rise to the name jugular or throat finned, and below the pectorals, giving the name thoracic or shoulder-finned fish. Philosophers pay little attention to the dorsal and anal fins, and fish, without losing their identity, can have as many as they please. In caudals, unlike human Caudles, they are restricted to one. There are other fish, such as eels, denominated apodal or footless, because the lower fins or feet are wholly wanting.

After having examined the texture, number and location of the fins, and counted the number of the rays in each, the naturalist next turns his attention to the hard bony portion of the head, which covers the gills, and opens and shuts as the fish breathes, and which, with the excellent common sense for which naturalists are notorious, he calls the operculum. It is divided into the operculum, or gill-cover proper, No. 1; the pre-operculum, or fore gill-cover, No. 2; the inter-operculum, or middle gill-cover, No. 3; and the sub-operculum, or under gill-cover, No. 4. The head, in the foregoing diagram, is intended to represent the head of a trout, weighing a pound and a half, caught at Phillipse’s Pond, near Smith Town, Long Island. The gill-rays are shown at No. 5. The divisions of the gill-cover are faintly marked in the real fish, and require some study.

Lastly, the naturalist examines a fish as a jockey does a horse, by looking at his teeth, and with about equally satisfactory results. They both are bitten, whether the term be used in a literal or metaphorical sense. The writer once, after catching a large fish, having heard that trout had teeth in their throats, proceeded to investigate. Moved thereto by the spirit of inquiry, he thrust one finger as far as possible down the trout’s mouth, and was not a little surprised, as well as pained, to find that the throat was lined with teeth sharper than a serpent’s, and arranged in the same manner. They inclined backward, and once having penetrated a substance, would not and could not let go. The writer having suffered the agony that the pursuit of science sometimes involves, after exhausting gentle means of escape, and knowing that he could no more wear a trout, than the old man in the “Decameron” could the protecting ring, with a wrench tore away his hand, a bleeding sacrifice to science. Any reader wishing to ascertain the same facts, may pursue a similar course.

On the foregoing diagram, which represents the arrangement of teeth in the salmon tribe, No. 6 is the upper jaw, and No. 7 the lower; No. 8, the outer teeth in the upper jaw, superior maxillary; No. 9, the same in the lower jaw, inferior maxillary; No. 10, the inner row of teeth of the upper jaw called learnedly the palatine; No 11, the teeth on the tongue, and No. 12 those on the roof of the mouth, or vomerine. The trout the writer has examined had no visible teeth on the roof of the mouth; they had either suffered from toothache in early life, and applying to a piscatorial dentist, had them drawn, or the teeth had slipped down and settled round their throats as the writer has already mentioned.

The reader, therefore, if he wishes to ascertain the scientific designation of a fish, should in the first place determine the number and location of the fins, the number and quality, as soft or hard, of the rays, the number of gill-rays, the characteristics and position of the teeth, the formation of the gill-cover, and lastly, as every numscull, the drawing teachers assure us, who can write can draw, a drawing of the fish, or at least an outline, should be made. The latter can be done simply by laying the specimen on a sheet of paper, spreading out his fins and running a pencil round him. And then the would-be naturalist will ascertain whether or not he belongs to a class so very liberal as to include salmon and smelt in the same category. He must not forget that it is much more important to study the nature, habits and food of the denizens of the water than to store his memory with their names, “for our philosophers hitherto, instead of studying their nature, have been employed in increasing their catalogues, and the reader, instead of observations or facts, is presented with a long list of names that disgust him with their barren superfluity.”

CHAPTER II.
THE AMERICAN TROUT.

The Brook Trout—The New York Charr—Salmo fontinalis.—Salmon tribe; ventrals in abdomen, rays soft.

The shoulder and first back fins have each eleven rays; the second back fin is mere fatty matter and rayless, the characteristic of the salmon tribe; the ventral has eight, the anal fifteen, and the tail nineteen rays. The back is dusky green, mottled with yellow spots; growing lighter on the sides, where the spots have irregularly a beautiful blue or carmine speck in the centre; the belly is silver white, with a roseate tinge as it fades into the darker colors of the sides; the shoulder fins are yellowish at the base, the ventrals yellowish red, the anal reddish, and in all the rays are dusky. The gill-covers have no defined spots.

The body is covered with delicate scales that will escape all but the strictest observation. The teeth are on the tongue and throat, but none on the roof of the mouth discernible to the naked eye; there is an outer row on the lower jaw, and an inner and outer row on the upper jaw. This fish is so well known to the public from its extensive distribution through the northern States, and so totally dissimilar from the Perch and Bass, miscalled Trout at the South, that a more particular description does not seem necessary.

Another fish taken at the North in the smaller lakes is called Red Trout, and attains the weight of twenty-five pounds. It is rare, and would appear to be an undescribed species, differing from the trout of the brooks and lakes, and not generally known even to sportsmen. A fish of a somewhat similar character was on exhibition at an eating-house in this city, but appeared to have been scaled. It was three feet six inches long, and weighed eighteen pounds. The back was very dark, the sides being of a lighter neutral tint, without any spots. There were a number of vomerine teeth, and the fin-rays, as far as could be ascertained by a cursory examination, were—

Br. 12; D. 13; P. 11; V. 8; A. 11; C. 19-⁵/₅.

This fish was said to have been taken in Maine, and differed entirely from the ordinary brook and lake trout. The fin-rays of the brook trout, as scientifically given by De Kay, are—

D. 13·0; P. 12; V. 8; A. 10; C. 19-⁶/₆.

Trout are in season from the first of February to the first of September in the Long Island streams; from April to September in those streams of the New England States that communicate with salt water; and from May till September in the upland waters of the middle and eastern States.[1] There is but one mode of taking them—namely, with the fly; although it is said poachers and pot hunters capture them with worms, minnows, nets, and even with their own roe. These villanies are not at present punished with death nor even imprisonment for life; but our legislature is looking into the matter, and there is no telling how soon such statutes may be passed.

How splendid is the sport, to deftly throw the long line and small fly with the pliant single-handed rod, and with eye and nerve on the strain, to watch the loveliest darling of the wave, the spotted naiad, dart from her mossy bed, leap high into the air, carrying the strange deception in her mouth, and turning in her flight, plunge back to her crystal home, with the cruel hook driven into her lips by a skillful turn of the angler’s wrist; to meet and foil her in her fierce and cunning efforts to escape, paying out the line as she rushes away resistless, meeting her in emergencies firmly and steadily, till the tip crosses the but, when she insists upon reaching the old stump or the weedy bottom; to slack the line when she leaps into air, trying to strike it with her tail; and above all, to watch the right moment, and keeping her head well up, to bring the beautiful prize quickly and steadily to the net! There may be others who have killed more and larger trout than myself, there may be others who can cast a longer line and lighter fly; but there are none who will work more steadily or who can enjoy it more intensely.

There are innumerable rules applicable to trout fishing and innumerable exceptions to each; neither man nor fish is infallible. A change of weather is always desirable: if it has been clear, a rainy day is favorable; if cold, a warm one; if the wind has been north, a southerly one is advantageous; a zephyr if it has been blowing a tornado. Generally, in early spring, amid the fading snows and blasts of winter, a warm day is very desirable; later, and in the heats of summer, a cold, windy day will insure success. Dead calm is dangerous, although many trout are taken in water as still, clear and transparent as the heavens above. The first rule is never to give up; there is hardly a day but at some hour, if there be trout, they will rise, and steady, patient industry disciplines the mind and invigorates the muscles. A southerly, especially a southeasterly wind, has a singular tendency to darken the surface, and in clear, fine waters is particularly advantageous; a southwester comes next in order; a northeaster, in which, by the by, occasionally there is great success, is the next; and a northwester is the worst and clearest of all. Give me wind on any terms, a southerly wind if I can have it; but give me wind. It is not known what quality of the wind darkens the water, it may be a haziness produced in the atmosphere, although with a cloudy sky the water is often too transparent; it may be the peculiar character of the waves, short and broken, as contradistinguished from long and rolling; but the fact is entitled to reliance.

Slight changes will often affect the fish. On one day in June, in the writer’s experience, after having no luck till eleven o’clock, the trout suddenly commenced rising, and kept on without cessation, scarcely giving time to cast, till two, when they as suddenly stopped. There was no observable change in the weather, except the advent of a slight haze, the wind remaining precisely the same. I was much disappointed, not having half fished the ground and being prevented, by the numbers that were taken, from casting over some of the largest fish that broke. As it was, I caught seventy trout in what is ordinarily considered the worst hours of the day. But in this particular, also, the same rules apply as to the warmth of the weather. In early spring it is useless to be up with the lark, even supposing such a bird exists; no fish will break the water till the sun has warmed the air; but in summer, the dawn should blush to find the sportsman napping. In fact, trout will not rise well unless the air is warmer than the water. They do not like to risk taking cold by exposing themselves to a sudden draught.

There is a very absurd impression, that trout will not take the fly early in the season; this is entirely unfounded. As soon as the ice disappears they will be found gambolling in the salt water streams, and leaping readily at the fly. At such times, on lucky days, immense numbers are taken. In March they have run up the sluiceways and are in the lower ponds, lying sullenly in the deepest water; then is the cow-dung, politely called the dark cinnamon, the most attractive fly. In April, May and June they are scattered, and entrapped by the hackles, professor, ibis, and all the medium sized flies. In July and August they have sought the headwaters of navigation, the cool spring brooks, and hide around the weeds and water-cresses, whence the midges alone can tempt them.

Any flies will catch fish, cast in any manner, if the fish are plenty and in humor to be caught. A few feathers torn from the nearest and least suspicious chicken, and tied on an ordinary hook with a piece of thread, will constitute a fly in the imagination of a trout, provided he follows, as he sometimes appears to do, the advice of the young folks, shuts his eyes and opens his mouth. I cannot recommend such tackle, being convinced the most skillfully made is the best; but I do advise simplicity of color. One of the best of all flies is the female cow-dung, made of a dark cinnamon color, and after the pattern used in England; there is a greenish abomination unjustly foisted upon American invention that is worthless. The hackles are in my opinion altogether inferior, except the black-winged hackle, which, of a bright warm day, is irresistible. The ibis and professor, dressed à l’Américaine, with yellow floss body and red tail, are both excellent flies. The coachman is the best evening fly, and will attract trout long after the angler can see to strike them, and when the sound of their plunge alone entices him to continue his efforts. The May and stone flies are good, and of late years a fly of mixed red and black, with wings, called by some, from his colors, the devil-fly, has come into vogue. The palmers are only to be despised and avoided. In summer, of the midges the yellow sally, the alder fly, the little cinnamon, the black gnat, the black and red ants, and in fact all others, are attractive. The water is then covered with myriads of many-colored flies, and there is hardly any artificial but will find its representative among the real life.

These are but a few of the flies that can be purchased in the shops, which yearly invent new varieties, regardless of truth to nature or the recommendations of experience. Many have no names whatever, and in others the workman has given his fancy such play that they are unrecognizable. In these pages, when the name is given of any fly described in Ronald’s “Fly-Fisher’s Entomology,” it is intended that it shall be dressed after the directions therein contained. A more full description of the various flies, both in use and to be found in our waters, will be given hereafter with some directions for tying them; but a great deal must be left to the practical experience of each fisherman, according to the range of waters he is in the habit of fishing.

Good luck, that synonym for all the virtues, does not depend so much upon the kind of flies as the skill in casting, and a poor fly lightly cast into the right spot will do better execution than the best fly roughly cast into the wrong place. The lure must be put where the fish habit, often before their very noses, or they will not take it; and when they lie, as they generally do in running streams, in the deep holes under the banks, where the bushes are closest and cause the densest shade, it requires some skill to cast properly into the exact spot. Sacrifice everything to lightness in casting; let the line go straight without a kink if you can, drop the fly into the right ripple if possible, but it must drop gently on the surface of the water. An ugly splash of a clear day in pure water, and the prey will dart in every direction, and the angler’s hopes scatter with them.

A beginner may practise a certain formula, such as lifting the line with a waive and a smart spring, swinging it backward in a half circle, and when it is directly behind him, casting straight forward; but as soon as he has overcome the rudimentary principles, he should cast in every manner, making the tip of his rod cut full circles, figure eights, and all other figures, behind him, according to the wind; bearing in mind, however, ever to make his fly drop as gently as a feather. He should use his wrist mainly, and practise with each hand, and should never be otherwise than ashamed of a bungling cast, though he be alone, and none but the fish there to despise him. If the line falls the first time with a heart-rending splash all in a tangle, it is useless to make the next cast properly. The fish have found out the trick, and know too much to risk their necks in any such a noose.

A skillful fisherman can cast almost any length of line, but practically, fifty feet, counting from the reel, is all that can be used to advantage. Some English books say only the leader (gut links) should alight in the water; but this is nonsense, for at least one half the line must fall into the water, unless the fisherman stand on a high bank. With a long line the difficulties of striking and landing the fish are greatly increased; in striking, there is much slack line to be taken up; in landing, it requires some time to get the fish under control, and he is apt to reach the weeds or a stump.

That most excellent fisherman and learned scholar, Dr. Bethune, in his edition of Walton, Part II., page 73, says that candid anglers must confess that nine out of ten trout hook themselves; this may be so in streams teeming with fish, where a dozen start at once, frantically striving to be the first; but in clear, well-fished streams, not one fish in a thousand will hook himself; and on Long Island an angler would grow grey ere he filled his basket if he did not strike, and that quickly. Striking, to my mind, is by far the most important point, and hundreds of fish have I seen escape for want of quickness. It must be done quickly but steadily, and not with a jerk, as the latter is apt, by the double action of the rod, to bend the tip forward and loosen instead of tightening the line. There are days when fish cannot be struck, although they are rising freely; whether they are playing or over-cautious, I never could determine; whether they are not hungry or the water is too clear, they put man’s capacities at defiance. Their appearance must be signalled to the eye, by that reported to the brain, which then directs the nerves to command the muscles to move the wrist; and ere this complicated performance is completed, the fish has blown from his mouth the feathery deception and has darted back to his haunts of safety. A fish will occasionally leap up, seize the fly, discover the cheat, and shaking his head, jump several feet along the surface of the water to rid his mouth of it, and do this so quickly as not to give a quick angler time to strike. How often fish are caught when they rise the second time, as then the angler is more on the alert, whereas on the first rise he was off his guard! How often fish rise when the angler’s head is turned away from his line, or when he is busy at something else, and how rarely are they caught! In my experience it is so great a rarity, that it might almost be said they never hook themselves. In the language of youth, the only hooking they do is to hook off.

Dr. Bethune, page 97, says the rod should not exceed one pound in weight. Indeed it should not, and if it does, it exemplifies the old maxim, so far as to have a fool at one end. If we could fish by steam, a rod exceeding a pound and measuring over fourteen feet might answer well, but in these benighted days, while wrists are made of bone, muscles, cartilages and the like, the lighter the better. A rod, and if perfection is absolutely indispensable, a cedar rod of eleven or twelve feet, weighing nine or ten ounces, will catch trout. Cedar rods can only be obtained in America, and then only on compulsion, but this wood makes the most elastic rods in the world. They spring instantly to every motion of the hand, and never warp. They are delicate; the wood is, like woman, cross-grained, but invaluable if carefully treated. The reel should be a simple click, never a multiplier, but large barrelled, and fastened to the but with a leather strap. The line, silk covered with a preparation of oil, tapered if possible at each end, and thirty to forty yards long. The basket, positive, a fish-basket; the angler, comparative, a fisher-man.

Thus equipped, go forth mildly approving where the writer’s opinions coincide with yours, simply incredulous where they do not. Ere you begin, however, you may wish to know the size of the fish you can catch, a matter of no little intricacy, for though we all know the size of the fish we have ourselves caught, there is always some one else that has caught larger. My largest trout, at the time this is written, was taken on the Marshpee River, on Cape Cod, and weighed three pounds and fourteen ounces. But it is said there were inland brook trout exhibited at the New York Club by a member in the year 1857, the two largest of which weighed cleaned six pounds and a half each. “I have my doubts.” These fish should have weighed, when first taken, nearly eight pounds, double the size of any trout, other than sea trout, I have ever seen or before that heard of. In my opinion, they were lake trout, caught, perhaps, from a small pond, and bright colored. It was claimed they were taken with the fly, which lake trout will not ordinarily touch; but, unfortunately, it was also said, that two weighing about five pounds each were caught and landed on one cast, and that this was done twice. Now confidence in our neighbors’ truth is the framework of society, but there is a limit to human credulity, and catching two five pound trout at one cast, is at the very verge of that limit. No one, except by the most incredible good fortune, could kill two such fish on any ordinary fly-tackle, with any ordinary fly-rod. The hooks would almost certainly tear out, and no strain could possibly be kept on the lower fish, which, by slacking up his line and then darting away, would probably go free. But great luck alone could enable a person to land two such fish; the lower one would never drown, being at perfect liberty—by the by, trout never die in the water, they always save enough life for one final rush—and when the upper fish was landed or gaffed, the lower would go off in a jiffy. When a person claims to do this twice in a day, he must be pronounced a lucky man indeed.

We caught our big trout in the Marshpee, and we will tell you how we did it, though the words make us blush as we write them. We were young then, and it is to be hoped innocent; and having gone to Sandwich, on Cape Cod, in search of untried fields, discovered a jolly, corpulent landlord, named Teasedale, who, with his friend, Johnny Trout, so named jocosely, were the fishermen of the neighborhood. That was before the stream was preserved for the benefit of the “Poor Indian,” and poorer fishermen mulcted, as at present, in five dollars a day for the privilege of fishing. We drove to the stream, almost six miles, Teasedale enlivening the early June morning with snatches of hunting songs, and when there plunged recklessly in. Oh! but the water was cold—a dozen large springs poured in their freezing contents—and the blood fairly crept back to our hearts. The stream ran through a narrow defile, overhung with the thickly tangled vine and creepers, rendering a cast of the line impossible, and had worked its way far under the steep banks, making dark watery caverns, where the great fish could lie in wait for their prey. We removed the upper joint of our fly-rod, which was heavy and strong, and leaving the line through the last ring of the second joint, we put on a bait next to the fly in beauty and effect, the minnow. The water was freezing cold—the closely entwined boughs and leaves shut out the heavens above, and we were alone in the shadowy darkness with the tenants of the deep. The herring frequented the brook, and pursued by the large trout, darted in shoals between our feet. It is always a good sign when the herring are running, and we had excellent luck.

There are several ways of putting on a minnow, and if a person from ignorance or necessity must poach, let him poach well. There is the gorge-hook loaded with lead, the snell passed by the baiting needle at the mouth of the bait and out at the tail, bringing the hooks which are double at the mouth. It is highly recommended by some English books and their American imitators, but in my experience is more useful, unbaited, for catching snapping mackerel, young blue-fish, than for any other purpose. There are the gangs of hooks, consisting of two or more small hooks back to back, one of which is inserted in the side or back of the bait, with another small one further up on the line, which is inserted on the lip or nose. It answers well for some kinds of fishing, and for large bait, but does not work well with small fish. The bait is not bent sufficiently, and does not spin readily.

Then there is the old-fashioned large single hook, thrust through the mouth, down the fleshy part of the back and out at the side, or out at the gills and back through the mouth into the side. The objection is that bait is apt to work down on the bend of the hook, or the trout is apt to take off the tail of the bait without being hooked.

The other, and I think the best plan of baiting with dead bait, is the same as the last, with the addition of a small hook to thrust through the nose, that tends to retain the fish in its place, and allow the hook to be carried down further toward the tail, and still make the bait spin well. Minnow is never properly baited, unless it spins freely with every motion of the rod, and it must ever be kept moving. Of course the line must be armed with the swivel-trace, and in baiting with dead minnow a Limerick hook should be used, when using worms or grasshoppers a hook of finer wire is better.

The dead minnow is preferable for rapid water. In ponds the minnow should be alive, in which case the hook is to be inserted in front of the dorsal fin, and the point may be left under the skin, or exposed, as the poacher pleases; I prefer it covered. It should not penetrate the flesh.

In the Marshpee I was using a single hook, keeping the bait well ahead of me, and creeping cautiously in the freezing water, watching the tiny float as it danced its merry course along, now borne swiftly over the rippling current, anon caught in an eddy and returning on its track, and then again resting motionless in some dark and quiet pool. It was scarcely visible beneath the dense shadows, and once in a while it would disappear from my straining sight; then followed a sharp blow with my rod, a fierce tug, a short fight between fear, despair and cunning on the one side, and strength, energy and judgment on the other. The prey once hooked, and skill there was not; it was a mere contention of two brute forces, in which the weaker went to the basket. An exhibition of skill or tenderness would have resulted in an entanglement round the nearest root, and the loss of fish, leader and hook. Still, there was excitement; the situation was romantic, the narrow gorge, the deep and rapid stream, the closely matted trees and vines, the ever-changing surface of the current, which adds beauty to the tamest brook, all combined to lend enchantment to the scene. The fish were large and vigorous, fresh run from the sea, where they had, the Winter long, been a terror to the small fry, and early death to juicy and unsuspicious shell-fish. They fought fiercely for life and liberty, their homes and their household gods, and, alas! too often successfully. The risk of their escape added to the interest of the occasion, and the number of herring darting past gave continual promise of the presence of their arch enemy, the trout.

I had half-filled my basket, and had met with wonderful escapes and terrible heart-rending losses, mingled with exhilarating successes. I had made about half the distance, as well as we judged, and felt proud and happy as no king upon his throne ever did or will. My rod, though a fly-rod, was whipped every few inches with silk, and thus strengthened had stood the unequal conflict admirably. Still hoping for better things—who will not hope for the impossible?—I strode on. Below me the current made a sudden turn at a bend in the stream, and eddied swiftly under the overhanging bank. The brook almost disappeared in what was evidently a vast cavern deep in the bowels of that bank. In such watery palaces, amid the worn rocks, the tangled roots, the undulating moss and weeds, fierce-eyed, monstrous trout delight to dwell. In such fortresses they await unwary travellers, and dark deeds are done in the congenial darkness—outrage, riots and murder stalk boldly about. The migratory herring, harmless and unsuspicious, peers in and starts affrighted back, then peers again, at last ventures forward, and then, compelled by instinct to ascend, tries to dart hastily by; there is a sudden rush, a frantic struggle, a piteous look entreating mercy of pitiless hearts; for an instant the water is dyed with blood and then flows on, washing, all trace of the deed away.

I approach the den carefully, the feather-like float dancing merrily far ahead over the rippling tide, and as the line is paid out, swaying from side to side, close in front of the roots that fringe the bank, still not a sign; a step forward—the water carries it under the bank out of sight. I stand still, expectant; nothing yet; I creep cautiously to the very bank, and thrust my rod in the water, aye, under the bank its full length. What’s that! Ah! what a tug! I have him, the monster, the Giant Despair of the wayfaring herring. How he pulls! I must have him out of his retreat; it is a great risk but my only chance. I strain my rod, my line, almost my arms, to the utmost; he comes, disdainful of surreptitious advantages, relying on his great strength; he has not taken protection of weed or stump. Now, my boy, do your utmost; yes, leap from the water, dart down with the current; I must give to you a little; no line can stand that strain; but you will never reach your lair again. Turn about, head up stream, that is what I want; there is a sandy bank above us, can I but reach it and land you there. Ah! you perceive the danger or have changed your mind; how you fly down stream with the slackened line hissing through the water behind you. Well, go, you will soon turn again. Already, beautiful, you have passed the bank; now, rod, be true; line, do your duty. The pliant ash bends, the upper joint has passed below the but in a wide hoop. He comes, his head is up; if I can but keep it out of water! he dashes the foaming waves with his strong tail; one more effort; bend rod, but do not break; he is out of water; I have him. He is dancing on the yellow sand his last dance in mortal form; his changing hues glancing in the mild light, his fierce mouth gasping, his bright sides befouled with sand and dust, his glittering scales torn off by the sharp stones. His efforts grow fainter, the flashing eye dims, a few convulsive throes and he is quiet; the grim hand of death has pressed upon him.

He is indeed the prince of monsters, the paragon of giants; so thick, so deep, with so small a head for so large a body; such brilliant hues: the fins so red, the blue and carmine spots so numerous and delicate. I wash him off and stand gazing at him in my hand regardless of further sport. I have captured the king, and care not to follow his subalterns. I lay him gently in my basket; he will not lie at full length. I cover him with moss, filling the little room left, and forcing my way through the overhanging bushes, and, reaching the broad light of day, proudly await the arrival of my companion. Then the moss is carefully removed, and the beauties of my darling are unveiled, and flash and gleam in the sunlight.

There are several ways of landing a trout, but not all equally sportsmanlike. Large trout may be gaffed, small ones landed in a net, and where neither of these means is at hand, they must be dragged out of water, or flirted up among the bushes, according to the taste of the angler and the strength of his tackle.

A tyro was once fishing on the same boat with me, using bait, when he struck his first trout. One can imagine how entirely misspent had been his previous existence, when it is said he had never taken a trout, no, nor any other fish before. It was not a large fish; such luck rarely falls to the share of the beginner, and in spite of what elderly gentlemen may say to the contrary, an ignorant countryman, with his sapling rod and coarse tackle, never takes the largest fish nor the greatest in quantity. Were it otherwise, sportsmen had better turn louts, and tackle makers take to cutting straight saplings in the woods. My companion, nevertheless, was not a little surprised at the vigorous rushes the trout made to escape, but his line being strong and rod stiff, he steadily reeled him in. Great was the excitement; his whole mind was devoted to shortening the line, regardless of what was to be done next. We had a darkey named Joe with us to row the boat and land the fish, and our luck having been bad during the morning, he was delighted at this turn of affairs, and ready, net in hand, to do his duty. The fish was being reeled up, till but a few feet of the line remained below the top, when, with a shout of “land, Joe, land him,” my companion suddenly lifted tip his rod, carrying the trout far above our heads. There it dangled, swaying to and fro, bouncing and jumping, while the agonized fisherman besought the darkey to land him, and the latter, reaching up as far as he could with the net, his eyes starting out of his head with wonder at this novel mode of proceeding, came far short of his object. Never was seen such a sight; the hopeless despair of my friend, the eagerness of the darkey, who fairly strove to climb the rod as the fish danced about far out of reach. What was to done? The line would not render, the rod was so long we could not reach the tip in the boat; and the only horrible alternative appeared to be my friend’s losing his first fish. The latter, however, by this remarkable course of treatment, had grown peaceable, and when he was dropped back into the water, made but feeble efforts, while my companion, as quietly as he could, worked out his line till he could land him like a Christian. Great were the rejoicings when the prize earned with so much anxiety was secured. That is the way not to land a trout.

One afternoon of a very boisterous day, I struck a large fish at the deep hole in the centre of Phillipse’s Pond, on Long Island. He came out fiercely, and taking my fly as he went down, darted at once for the bottom, which is absolutely covered with long, thick weeds. The moment he found he was struck, he took refuge among them, and tangled himself up so effectually that I could not feel him, and supposed he had escaped. By carefully exerting sufficient force, however, the weeds were loosened from the bottom, and the electric thrill of his renewed motion was again perceptible. He was allowed to draw the line through the weeds and play below them, as by so doing they would give a little, while if confined in them he would have a leverage against them, and could, with one vigorous twist, tear out the hook. When he was somewhat exhausted, the question as to the better mode of landing him arose. The wind was blowing so hard as to raise quite a sea, which washed the weeds before it in spite of any strain that could be exerted by the rod, and drifted the boat as well, rendering the latter almost unmanageable, while the fish was still so vigorous as to threaten at every moment to escape. I besought the boatman, who was an old hand and thoroughly up to his business, to drop the boat down to the weeds and let me try and land my fish with one hand while holding the rod with the other. He knew the dangers of such a course, and insisted upon rowing slowly and carefully for shore at a shallow place sheltered from the wind, although I greatly feared the hook would tear out or the rod snap under the strain of towing both weeds and fish; once near shore, he deliberately forced an oar into the mud and made the boat fast to it, and then taking up the net, watched for a favorable chance. He waited for some time, carefully putting the weeds aside, until a gleaming line of silver glanced for a moment beneath the water, when darting the net down, he as suddenly brought it up, revealing within its folds the glorious colors of a splendid trout. That was the way to land a trout under difficulties, although I still think I could have done it successfully by myself.

Generally, the utmost delicacy should be shown in killing a fish, but there are times when force must be exerted. If the fish is making for a stump, or even weeds, he must be stopped at any reasonable risk of the rod’s breaking or the fly’s tearing out. A stump is the most dangerous; one turn round that, and he is off, leaving your flies fast probably in a most inconvenient place and many feet below the surface of the water. But remember the oft-repeated maxim of a friend of the writer’s, who has been with him many a joyous fishing day, that “One trout hooked is worth a dozen not hooked.” Small trout are more apt to escape than large ones, because the skin round the mouth of the latter is tougher. With either, however, there is risk enough, the hook is small, and often takes but a slight hold; the gut is delicate, and frequently half worn through by continual casting.

Fish are, in a majority of instances, hooked in the corner of the upper jaw, where there is but a thin skin to hold them; by long-continued struggle, the hole wears larger, and finally, to the agony of the fisherman, the hook slips out.

There are occasions when force must be exerted, and then good tackle and a well-made rod will repay the cost. At dusk one night I cautiously approached the edge of a newly-made pond that was as full of stumps as of fish, both being about the extreme limit, and casting into the clear water, struck a fine fish of three-quarters of a pound. Not one minute’s grace did he receive, but I lugged and he fought, and after a general turmoil I succeeded in bringing him to land, in spite of weeds and stumps and twigs, which he did his best to reach. The same was done with seven fish after a loss of only three flies, and with a rod that weighed but eight ounces.

A rod is not so apt to break from a fair strain as from a short twist; of course, if you strike a large fish as you raise to cast, or catch in the bushes behind you when your line is extended, any rod may break. This, however, rarely happens, and you are as likely to break the tip by trying to pull the line through the rings with your hand, or by lifting a small trout out of water and swinging it in past you, as in any other way. In drawing a fish to shore when you have no landing net, step back and bring the strain evenly on your rod, and it will rarely give way. If you find the fish takes down the current and you are unable to hold him, follow him if you can, and if not, point your rod toward him and bring the strain on the line. The hook may tear out, or the gut may break, or even the line may be lost, but you will save your rod, while otherwise you would probably lose both.

In landing a fish, wait till he is pretty well exhausted, bring his mouth above water and keep it there till he is drawn into the net, and warn your assistant to remove the net at once if he gets his head down. By diving after him with the net, the assistant would certainly not catch the fish and might tangle one of your other flies. The fish should be led into the net, and the latter kept as still as possible; he knows as well as you do what it is for, and if his attention is drawn to it, will dart off as madly as ever.

There are occasions and situations where a fly cannot be used, and a minnow—called down East, from the Indian name mummychog, a mummy—cannot be obtained. In such cases it becomes necessary to fall back upon first principles. A grasshopper, twitched along the surface of the water in a way called skittering, is an effective bait, although an imitation grasshopper, as well as an imitation minnow, does not answer and will not deceive trout. Salmon and trout roe are used, and it is said, contrary to the writer’s experience, with great success. Gentles, which are grubs hatched in meat that has been fly-blown, are a favorite bait in Europe; but, in spite of their beautiful name, are horrible objects and not in vogue with us. Caddies, or the larvæ of the Phryganidæ in their cases, are also in use there, but not here. We must, therefore, have recourse to the angleworm.

The finest worms are to be found in tanyards; they should be placed on the top of damp moss, left for a night or two to work themselves clean, and then placed in other moss sprinkled with milk. They become strong, light colored and lively, and should be threaded on a fine hook by passing the point in at the head of the worm and out half-way down the side; then in, half up the side of another, and forced nearly to the head. Worms, if cast as in fly-fishing, are very attractive, and will frequently kill an immense number of fish. There is much skill in casting so as not to tear off the bait, and yet to cover an extent of water.

In rapid streams, whether with bait or fly, always fish down stream; there is less noise, the line is kept taught, the fly looks more natural, and unless the wind is strong against you, it will be much easier and pleasanter fishing. Move the bait continually; keep it in motion under all circumstances; this is the great secret of bait-fishing.

I have also heard of shrimp preserved in whisky being used, and think they might answer for fish that have just run from the salt water; but as frequent experiment with the live shrimp has proved their inferiority to minnow, I have little faith in them.

The trout is admitted to be the most beautiful of all our fish; not so large nor powerful as the salmon, he is much more numerous, abounding in all the brooks and rivulets of our northern States. He lives at our very doors; in the stream that meanders across yon meadow, where the haymakers are now busy with their scythes, we have taken him in our early days; down yonder in that wood, there is a brook filled with bright, lively little fellows; and away over there we know of pools where there are splendid ones. Who has not said or thought such words as he stood in the bright summer’s day under the grateful shade of the piazza running round the old country house where he played, a boy?

He does not make the nerves thrill and tingle like the salmon, he does not leap so madly into the air nor make such fierce, resolute rushes, he has not the silver sides nor the great strength; but he is beautiful as the sunset sky, brave as bravery itself, and is our own home darling. How he flashes upon the sight as he grasps the spurious insect, and turns down with a quick little slap of the tail! How he darts hither and thither when he finds he is hooked! How persistently he struggles till enveloped in the net! And then with what heart-rending sighs he breathes away his life!

There is no fish like him. Lay your prize on a bed of moss, which is his natural resting-place; look at the exquisite hues like shotten silk, the dark spots, the carmine specks, the single first white ray in his fins, and the rich red of the second extending to the lower edge of the abdomen; the greenish-mottled back, the silver below—what a picture for the painter, if his brush could catch the evanescent tints. How proudly and fondly we gaze on our beautiful prize, not with the mere rude, brutal pride in securing so much booty, such a sum in money value, or a delightful dish for the table, but with an affectation that is hard to explain to those who are not anglers. The sportsman is more fond of the game he pursues and more anxious to preserve it from destruction than the most pretentious humanitarian of animal worshippers. The angler is proverbially the most gentle of men, he is fond of nature, peaceable, contemplative, patient; he admires the grandeur of the woods, the rugged strength of the rocks, and the changing splendor of the sky. He listens with pleasure to the murmur of the brook, the songs of the birds, and the rustle of the wind.

The man who kills to kill, who is not satisfied with reasonable sport, who slays unfairly or out of season, who adds one wanton pang, that man receives the contempt of all good sportsmen and deserves the felon’s doom. Of such there are but few.

“We seek this, our favorite fish, in early Spring, when the ice has just melted, and the cold winds remind one forcibly of bleak December, and when we find him in the salt water streams, especially of Long Island and Cape Cod; but we love most to follow him in the early Summer, along the merry streams of old Orange, or the mountain brooks of Sullivan County. Where the air is full of gladness, and the trees are heavy with foliage—where the birds are singing upon every bough, and the grass is redolent of violets and early flowers. There we wade the cold brooks, the leafy branches bowing us a welcome as we pass—the water rippling over the hidden rocks, and telling us, in its wayward way, of the fine fish it carries in its bosom. With creel upon our shoulder and rod in hand, we reck not of the hours, and only when the sinking sun warns of the approaching darkness, do we seek, with sharpened appetite, the hospitable country inn, and the comfortable supper that our prey will furnish forth.

The brooks of Long Island, especially on the southern shore, abound with trout. But they are few in comparison with the hordes that once swarmed in the streams of Sullivan and Orange counties, and in fact all the lower tier of counties in this State, before the Erie Railroad was built, and opened the land to the crowd of market men. I am proud to say I have travelled that country when it took the stage coach twelve hours to go twenty-four miles, and when, if we were in a hurry, we walked, and sent our baggage by the coach. Now you are jerked along high above our favorite meadows, directly through our wildest hills, and often under our best streams, at the rate of forty miles an hour, and yet people call that an improvement. As well might you lug a man out of bed at night, drag him a dozen times round his room, and fling him back into bed, and say he was improved by the operation. No one wants to be lugged out of bed, precisely as no one wanted to travel beyond Sullivan County; the best shooting and fishing in the world was to be found there.

When the railroad was first opened, the country was literally overrun, and Bashe’s Kill, Pine Kill, the Sandberg, the Mon Gaup and Callicoon, and even Beaver Kill, which we thought were inexhaustible, were fished out. For many years trout had almost ceased from out of the waters, but the horrible public, having their attention drawn to the Adirondacks, gave it a little rest, and now the fishing is good.

If you go there, stop at George Durrance’s, in Wurtsborough, and if he boasts of fishing, as he will,[2] ask him whether he remembers going to the Sandberg one day, many years ago, to show a Yorker how to catch trout.

It was a bright sunshiny day, and as we drove up to the edge of the bank, above a clear, rapid, sparkling stream, I saw a large trout leap heavily out of water, where the current swept with a swirl past a high rock. As I rigged up my flies, George borrowed my knife to cut a pole, as he did not have much faith in “them things,” and while he was gone, I crept cautiously up behind the rock, and cast over the further projecting point. I could not see my flies alight, but heard a splash, and striking felt I had a splendid fish. He fought bravely, but by keeping him in the upper part of the pool, the lower end by the rock, was not disturbed. After some trouble, I landed him, having no net. Then approaching the rock with the same caution, the performance was repeated, only this time my rod was broken in endeavoring to land the fish, and it was necessary to find George and obtain my knife.

I discovered him under the bushes on the bank, in a miserable state—it was oppressively hot—his rod was a long sapling, and naturally heavy—the sky and water were clear, and the fish would not touch the worm, which we could see from where he sat. He had only taken two miserable little fish. He did no better all day, and while I rose and killed fish after fish, he did not take another one. When afternoon came, and he impatiently urged me away, my basket was so full it broke down, and he had his two fish. On reaching his house, the boys spread our respective takes out on a board, and to George’s deep chagrin exhibited them to the entire village. He has not taught a “Yorker” how to catch trout since.

So much for your countryman, with his bed-cord for line and stick for pole, and yet George was admitted to be the best fisherman in that neighborhood. A person residing near a stream, and having fished it from infancy, and acquainted with its every pool, has an immense advantage over a stranger; but there was only one countryman ever beat me trout-fishing, and he, after taking me to the stream, slipped off and waded it down ahead of me.

All the streams that, taking their rise in or near this State, flow into the Delaware or Susquehanna, are filled with trout; the Tobyhanna, the Bushkill, Broadhead’s Creek and a thousand others, that the Erie and Lackawanna railroads now make easy of access. While Hamilton County, Essex, the region of the Adirondacks, Clinton County with its Chateaugay and Chazy Lakes, and the Saranac River, and Franklin County with its innumerable ponds, offer all the sport that the heart of man can desire. All the streams of New England, especially in the neighborhood of the White Mountains, are filled with small trout; while the State of Maine, in Moosehead Lake, the Kennebec, and its other fine rivers and lakes, affords the finest brook trout-fishing in the world.

The angler may, therefore, seek his darling close to his own summer-house, or may drop in at any of the many well kept taverns on the south side of Long Island, where he will find every comfort and most of the luxuries of the day, will meet other enthusiastic fishermen, who will relate varied and interesting experiences, and exchange views and fancies with him, and will prove themselves, if real fishermen, the most obliging and unselfish gentlemen in the world; or he may seek the lonely hotel at Lake Pleasant or Moosehead Lake, where he will still find comfort in a rougher way, and wonderful good sport; or he may boldly strike out into the trackless woods, commit himself to his birch canoe and trusty guide, and then, if he be made of the right stuff, I promise him such happiness as he will never forget—merry innocent days and dreamless nights, health in every limb, and contentment in his mind.[3]

There is no fish more difficult to catch, nor that gives the true angler more genuine sport than the trout. His capture requires the nicest tackle, the greatest skill, the most complete self-command, the highest qualities of mind and body. The arm must be strong that wields the rod; the eye true that sees the rise; the wrist quick that strikes at the instant; the judgment good, that selects the best spot, the most suitable fly, and knows just how to kill the fish. A fine temper is required to bear up against the loss of a noble fish, and patient perseverance to conquer ill luck.

Hence it is that the fisherman is so proud of his basket of a dozen half-pound trout, he feels that any one more awkward or less resolute could not have done so well. He feels conscious that he does not owe his success to mere luck, but has deserved the glory. He feels that he has elevated himself by the very effort. Do not suppose I mean that there is no skill in other fishing; there is in all, even in catching a minnow for bait, but most of all in trout-fishing.

CHAPTER III.
SEA TROUT.

Salmo Trutta Marina—Salmon Trout—White Trout.

This fish corresponds precisely with the description given by Dr. De Kay of the Speckled Trout, Salmo Fontinalis, except in the following particulars:

I can find no teeth in the vomer or central part of the roof of the mouth any more than I can find them on the common brook trout, and I have examined great numbers of the latter for the purpose. The pectorals are nearly a transparent white, slightly tinged with red at the origin of the rays, except that the second ray is darkish. The first ray of the ventrals is yellow, the second dark, the third and the others orange fading into white; the origin of the ventrals is directly under that of the first dorsal. The first ray of the anal fin is orange, the second and others dark green, growing lighter toward the tail, the origin of the second and third rays being yellowish. The scales are very small, imbedded in the skin, and there are neither scales nor defined spots on the gill-covers. The fin-rays are as follows:

Br. 12; D. 13; P. 13; V. 8; A. 10; C. 19-⁶/₆.

The branchial rays seem to differ sometimes, the same fish having eleven on one side and twelve on the other, and the highest one is a half ray or small plate. The anal, properly speaking, has eleven rays, but the first is so delicate and so lost in the fleshy part of the fin, that it is hardly distinguishable.

The coloring of these fish differs greatly from that of the common trout, but it is universally conceded that color is no test or distinction of species. When fresh run from the sea, and when still inhabiting the salt water, they are gloriously brilliant; their backs a liquid bluish green, the under part flashing like molten silver. The spots and scarlet specks on their sparkling sides are of a purer tone, and the lower fins more slender and delicate.

They are found in the bays of Prince Edward’s Island, in the harbors of New Brunswick, and in all the gulf and river of St. Lawrence and its lower tributaries. In Frank Forrester’s “Fish and Fishing,” a letter from Mr. Perley, the British Commissioner of Fisheries, is quoted, page 123, in which he says these fish do not ascend into purely fresh water. In this I am reluctantly, out of respect to his great experience as a fisherman and high standing in scientific attainments, compelled to differ from him. I have unquestionably taken these fish far above tide water, and have the best authority for saying that usually, if not invariably, the larger trout at least ascend to the head-waters of the mountain streams to spawn. I venture to say that no large sea trout are taken in the tide water after the last, and rarely after the first of August. It is probable that he has been misled by the fact that there are trout in the same streams that never descend to the sea, and there is a marked difference in color between them and their brethren, although I believe they are the same fish. For the correctness of these views, reference can be made to the experience of many authorities that would be satisfactory to one that I esteem and respect as much as I do my excellent friend and brother of the angle, Mr. Perley. While mentioning his name, it will not be amiss to tender him, in the name of the fishermen of the United States, our thanks and grateful acknowledgments for the invariable kindness, courtesy and good humor with which he has answered the numerous questions entailed upon him by his mention in Frank Forrester’s “Fish and Fishing,” and the valuable aid and advice he has furnished the wanderers from the States in their search for piscatorial happiness. Combining as he does the heartiness of an Englishman with the sociability of our own country, we are proud to claim him, while he remains in our vicinity, as half an American. But let me, at the same time, suggest to my countrymen, that there is a limit even to the best of tempers, and that, although each one may only put a few questions and take up a little valuable time, the total combined may be annoying, inconvenient, and even excessively burdensome.[4]

In addition to the positive fact of taking sea trout above tide water, it is to be remarked as a habit of all trout to ascend in summer to the cool sources of the springy brooks, and our common trout will invariably be found, after the warm weather is at its height, either in the rivulets that feed the ponds where they dwell in winter, or at the head-waters of the ponds. The sun’s rays are so powerful that they affect any sheet of open water, especially the harbors and bays of the ocean, and the fish will not live there, but withdraw to cooler regions. A remarkable case of this kind fell under the writer’s observation at Masapequa Pond, which is universally admitted to be the best preserve on Long Island. It is rather small, and quite shallow except in the channel, and being entirely unsheltered, is liable to become heated in hot weather. The spring had been remarkably mild, and in the middle of May, after a number of days that reminded one of June, I visited Masapequa, and, although the weather was favorable and a lively ripple darkened the water, only two trout were killed in the entire morning. I was much discouraged and surprised, until happening to get my flies caught, I put my hand into the water and found it milk-warm. The explanation was simple, and I at once told the proprietor, who had been more astounded than myself, that the fish had run out of the pond into the brook; and there, sure enough, we shortly discovered them lying in the deep pools in shoals.

If they cannot retire to cool, fresh, aërated water, they will perish, as happened one dry, warm season in a pond at Oyster Bay, which, although well filled with trout, had no extensive head-waters. The fish crowded round the flume, hardly disturbed by being touched with a stick, remaining motionless, and evidently suffering. They died and were picked up by scores.

If sea trout do not ascend the fresh streams, where do they spawn? From the habits of all the salmon tribe, we know they must have a current of pure and cool water to vivify the eggs, and they certainly cannot find this along the shores and bays. Their eggs must be deposited on a gravelly bed and not on sand, and as the bottom of the salt water, which is purely sand, even if appropriate spawning ground, is peopled with all sorts, shapes and sizes of creeping, crawling and burrowing things, from sand-worms to sea-eggs, the spawn would be utterly destroyed long before it could come to maturity. If, in spite of all these difficulties, the eggs should hatch, the young fry being entirely helpless for thirty days, and little able to take care of themselves afterward, would be annihilated by their elder brethren or the first sea fish that came along. Young trout, in their appropriate localities, hide carefully in little spring rills and close along shore for months after they are hatched, and not till well grown and active do they trust themselves in the deeper places among the larger fish. Nature has taught them that the latter have an excessive fondness for them.

Whether sea trout spawn earlier than brook trout, I do not know, but very possibly they may, as in cooler countries fish usually spawn earlier than in warmer ones. However, in August the roe is not developed to any great extent; no more so, apparently, than with us, and, although the Canadian Winter sets in earlier than ours, trout do not fear the cold. The regions they inhabit being extremely difficult of access in the freezing season, this question may remain some time unsolved.

Whether sea trout should be ranked as a distinct species, or whether there are any different species of trout in America, has been a serious question. It is a great misfortune that every naturalist, in his eager endeavor to discover new species and originate new names, has caught at the slightest distinctions in appearance, which are often only due to food or water, and has immediately dubbed the fish a knight and endowed him with a new name—frequently some horrible Latin perversion of his own. Real distinctions are those permanent ones that no change of food and water can affect, nor the chance influence of a few shell-fish or a muddy bottom. There are distinctions between these trout and brook trout, of color, comparative size of different parts of the body, formation of the head and fins; but not more so than one often meets with in fishing any of the streams of Long Island that communicate with the sea, or even in the different streams of the wild woods. The sea trout of Canada certainly do far excel the ordinary trout in size, being taken, with the fly, weighing nine pounds, and the ordinary average being from three to four; but otherwise they seem to have no permanent peculiarity that should distinguish them from the common brook trout. All other distinctions fade after the trout have been for some time in fresh water, and a late run of sea trout differs far more from those which have ascended the streams a month earlier than the latter from the brook trout. Indeed, some sea trout have become domesticated in the fresh water, and never returning to the sea, have settled down, although often of great size, into the ordinary trout.

In Stump Pond, on Long Island, and the adjacent waters, are four different varieties of trout: the old-fashioned Stump Pond Trout,[5] with a black mouth, a long, thin body, a big head, and a wolfish, hungry look; the Salt Water Trout, with a small, sleepy head, a deep body, and a rich coloring, small fins and red flesh; the Brook Trout, long, narrow, brightly marked, gracefully shaped and lively; and a trout which has appeared in a new pond, scarcely yet completed, with a dark, strong coloring, very black on the back, a thick, stout body, and a well proportioned head. Any one can distinguish these fish at a glance, but must they each have a different name, and a Latin one at that?

The fresh run sea trout of the North have beautiful silver sides, almost as bright as a salmon’s, and in this particular, at least, differ from the salt water loving trout of Long Island and Cape Cod. Their heads are small, delicate, and exquisitely shaped, and their lower fins are small and almost transparent. The heads of the males are larger, and the lower jaw more hooked than those of the female, and these differences increase as the spawning season advances. The head of the female bears a comparison to that of a modest, refined lady, while that of the male resembles the big head and ugly jaw of the struggling, quarrelling, but protecting man. At times their flesh is a bright red, often a dull yellow and rarely whitish. The shape of their bodies is graceful and broad across the back, to a greater degree in both particulars than the sea run trout of Long Island and Massachusetts. But as they ascend the rivers, and after they have been some time in their new abode, these peculiarities diminish, the color of their backs turns from a beautiful green to a dull black, the splendor of their silvery sides fades, and the heavy spots and roseate tinge appear; their translucent fins grow opaque and strong from greater use in the swift current; their shape even seems to alter, and they are altogether unlovely by comparison with their former selves. Are they, therefore, “like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once,” and entitled to three distinct appellations, or are they simply our dearly loved old friends, the Speckled Trout?

The change in appearance of these fish cannot be explained by the suggestion that the ordinary brook trout ascend the rivers and mingle with those of the sea, because the latter are to be caught in every stage, from the brilliancy of the fresh river fish to the dull colors of the oldest inhabitant. And it will be noticed that at the heads of the rivers a bright-colored fish is rarely met with, although they must be, with few exceptions, all sea trout.

The best trout rivers of Canada are troublesome to reach, difficult to ascend, and seldom attempted by any but the salmon fisher. To the latter, the trout, attractive as he seems to us, is a trial and a nuisance. Abundant and voracious, he often rushes in advance of the lordly salmon, seizes the fly, and then discovering his mistake, by his struggles disturbs the pool, ruffles the fisherman’s temper, and frightens the larger game from its equanimity. He is therefore little noticed by the frequenters of the headwaters, except to be denounced, and his delicate peculiarities seldom considered and less esteemed. He is principally sought in the tide water along the shores, or from boats in the open bays, but rarely followed to his summer home. The statements, therefore, of Canadian fishermen with regard to him must be cautiously received and carefully weighed; their experience may not have been sufficiently extended.

Whatever be his name, he is a beauty, the fairest of the children of the sea. There are others of more variegated colors, of gaudier hues, of more slender shape, but the trout is lord of all. He is the pet of the true fisherman, whether taken by the name of Salmo trutta in the bays of Canada, weighing over ten pounds, or as Salmo fontinalis, in the mountain streams of Vermont, reaching not one quarter as many ounces. In Canada, sportsmen—and none others seem to fish—take the sea trout solely with the fly. In June, and earlier, they are found in the tide waters, and there prefer gaudy flies. The scarlet ibis, or curry-curry of South America, dressed as it is ordinarily done, or diversified by a little gold or silver tinsel wound round the body, or indeed the entire hook wound with tinsel alone, is by many preferred to all other flies; but the red hackle, the golden pheasant, the professor, the grey drake, and in fact any gay fly, will meet with approval. A much admired fly is made of a red body and yellow wings; but the more sober colors must not be forgotten nor neglected, they are often more successful than their gaudy relations. As the season advances, and the fish ascend the clear, cool rivers, especially if the water be low and the weather dry, the sober flies are preferable. Then the cow-dung, the alder-fly, the turkey-brown, the winged black hackle, and in fact all the ordinary flies, are in demand; a fly invented by myself, of a blackbird’s wing and a claret body and legs, and called the early fly, has often proved itself uncommonly killing; and indeed all the flies usually employed in other waters are appropriate for the sea trout in Canada.

Neither does the size of hook differ from that ordinarily in use; it should average about a number nine, with a few somewhat larger for rough water. It is rarely desirable, on account of the enormous size of the fish, to use more than one fly at a time, and generally the trout will soon remove the difficulty by reducing them to that number; but at times, when fish are shy, they seem to be attracted by seeing several. In order to kill the largest possible quantity, without any regard to humanity or sportsmanship, a heavy fly-rod is desirable, as much time is lost in landing them with a delicate rod.

For many hundred miles below Quebec, the majestic St. Lawrence rolls its transparent waters in a steady surge toward the ocean. Forward and backward heaves the mighty tide, piling up the waters eighteen and twenty feet; but the steady current keeps on its course toward the gulf. Into this wonderful stream, that can only be likened to an arm of the sea, at every few miles debouches from the granite hills a river, more or less extensive and more or less rocky and turbulent. These rivers rise on the mountain tops, cold and clear, and thunder down over falls and rapids, through chasms and gorges split in the eternal rock, till they leap, tumble or crawl into that outlet of a thousand lakes, the highway of the Canadas.

These streams the salmon and trout ascend, there to disport themselves, there to make love, prepare their nests, and perpetuate their species. The water is cool, running from the frigid regions of the north or supplied by icy springs, and the bottom offers every variety of spawning beds. There is the stony pool for the salmon, the pebbly one for the trout, and never do the two spawn, and rarely even live, in the same. The pool where the salmon lie is deep and rapid, with a bottom composed of dark limestones averaging about the size of a bantam’s egg. While the trout hide in a sluggish pool, and often one worn away by the water and hollowed from a clay bank. It is a tradition, but one by no means well substantiated, that trout never eat young salmon, nor salmon young trout. As trout are more fond of their own species than almost any other delicacy, it is not probable they would be fastidious about swallowing a nice, juicy little salmon.

The country through which these streams run is very peculiar: rough hills of granite rise almost perpendicularly from the edge of the water, many hundred and sometimes many thousand feet. Their sides are bare and bleak, and if adorned at all with verdure, it is with a stunted pine and spruce, that only half hides the white rock beneath. The streams wind in tortuous course among the crags, and slowly gain a high elevation. These bare, unprofitable hills extend back from the north shore of the St. Lawrence as far as the foot of man has penetrated, and only at long intervals by the shore of some of the larger rivers, where forty centuries of storms have worn away and washed the detritus from the mountain into some little bay, have half civilized beings been enabled to build rough cabins and glean a scanty subsistence. Thus are these waters, the home and nursery of the trout and salmon, protected forever by nature against the pervading destructiveness of man. Judicious laws have been passed and will be enforced by the Canadian government, and the American fisherman may find in neighboring waters what he will never again see in his own, these noble fish dwelling in abundance, and protected from worthless, wanton and unreasonable destruction.

It is a burning shame, a foul blot on the character of Americans, and tarnish on their reputation for far-sighted economy, that their only idea of the treatment of the wild game of the woods and waters seems to be total annihilation. “After me a desert,” is their motto; and they never rest till, by planting snares and liming streams, they have caught the last partridge and poisoned the last fish. Thus have they already destroyed one of the most valuable resources of the country; the Hudson, the Connecticut, the Penobscot, and even the Kennebec, yield no more salmon, and we yearly pay to Canada enormous sums for what we once had, and might still have, in plenty on our own shores. Not many years ago a person buying shad on the Connecticut River was required to take such a proportion of salmon. Now that the head-waters are covered with tanneries and saw-mills, and are crossed by dams without the simple expedient of a flume that the fish could ascend, and now that early salmon are worth a dollar a pound in New York market, where are the former denizens of the Connecticut?

All the timber cut on the streams would not pay for the damage done to the fisheries. In Canada the people have discovered, fortunately for them not too late, the importance of stringent protective laws. The nets can only be set within a certain distance, and cannot extend across the entire stream. In Lower Canada the net fishing terminates on the first day of August, and the rod fishing on the fifteenth of September, and spearing, the most cruel, unprofitable and injurious mode of destruction, is forbidden altogether.

About one hundred and twenty miles below Quebec the wondrous Saguenay pours its dark waters and fierce current into the placid bosom of the St. Lawrence. It is one of the natural wonders of our still new and scarcely explored country. Hills rise a thousand feet sheer up, and its waters descend a thousand feet deep at their base. The St. Lawrence, at its mouth, is only some thirty feet deep, but the bottom suddenly descends at the entrance to the Saguenay, and becomes from five hundred to a thousand feet in depth. The breadth of the Saguenay is so great that the grandeur of the mountains is lost to the eye, and the scenery is remarkable more for ruggedness than beauty. At the mouth of this river was the first station of the Hudson Bay Company, a little village called Tadousac, which is pronounced with the emphasis on the last syllable, and in that village stands the mission church of the Jesuits, the oldest in the country.

Close to Tadousac, and almost adjoining at the back, is a still smaller village called L’Anse à l’Eau, and although great ships no longer lie at Tadousac, and the houses are fast falling to decay, and the good men of the olden days have long gone their last journey, and the trappers are never more seen around the famous station, and the glory of the Hudson Bay Company has departed, the trout and salmon coast along the rocks and visit the inlets as they did when priests promenaded the natural terraces of Tadousac, and when the shortest road to the Northwest was up the Saguenay River. The trout care not though the iron horse has sprung two great leaps across the water that they live in, and know not that a woman, the only Catholic that can read, officiates as high priest in the sanctum of the woman-haters, the mission church of the Jesuits.

The St. Lawrence abounds with most delicious food for trout; there are acres of small fish; the sand eels crowd the bays yards deep, the sardines, the mullet, the capelin, the tommy cods, push and jostle their way along, while shellfish innumerable cover the sandy bottom. Flies swarm on the water, and the deep rivers in Winter and the cool streams in Summer constitute the paradise of the salmonidæ.

Along the shores of the tide water, early in Spring the trout and salmon make their appearance, and wandering about pass the merry days of May, June and July in feasting and junketing, in visiting new scenes and tasting every variety of food, till instinct warns them the waters are falling, and they must hasten to their sylvan bowers and enjoy the pleasures of love and paternity. Then slowly, the largest first, they leave the tide waters and swarm up all the practicable streams, running the rapids and steadily advancing to their pebbly spawning beds, which kind nature appears to have prepared in the heart of these impassable mountains for their especial protection. Through all this season, June, July and August, the fishing is magnificent; they are in great numbers, and of immense size; but after they have once left the salt water, the angler must accompany them in their ascent if he would continue his sport, and by day struggle in his canoe against the rapids, up which he hears them darting at night.

While the fish are still in tide water, and the fisherman is fishing from the rocks, the head of some bay into which flows a stream of fresh water, and the time of the lower half of the tide, are both desirable. The former as furnishing a variety of food, and the latter as contracting the fishing ground. The eddies of a swift current, and the hollows of a rocky bottom are both affected by the fish; although they are often found along a smooth sandy shore, chasing the minnows, and now and then dashing at a fly or sand-hopper thrown off the land. It is nothing unusual to capture a hundred fish in as few hours as it will require to land them, and often the only limit to the number will be the sportsman’s humanity. They are a difficult fish to preserve; it seems sacrilegious to salt them; they are not good pickled in brine, and smoking is both injurious and troublesome. The fisherman, if he would not have them rot before his eyes, must put a bridle on his eagerness.

They run very large, sometimes above a dozen pounds, are often taken of five and six, and frequently a whole day’s catch will average three pounds. They are found at the mouth and along the shore of every river that empties into the lower part of the St. Lawrence. They ascend the Saguenay, and are taken at and near its mouth in great numbers, and in fact everywhere in the lower St. Lawrence and all its tributaries they abound. It would be more difficult to tell where not to find them than where to find them. But the best trout-fishing season is later, when they have followed the salmon and retired to the upper waters of the mountain streams, where they lie together in shoals, in the deep pools. Then they may be traced by the wake their motion leaves in the water; then may the fisherman, casting a long line and careful fly, pick the finest and go on fishing till heart and soul are satisfied. There, amid the wild scenery, at the foot of the granite hills, by the shade of the stunted spruce, he may take his stand upon some point of rocks, near to a black pool, and deftly wielding the slender rod, may bring to the net one after another of the mighty denizens of the water. But even then, if he would take the mightiest he must prove himself a sportsman by keeping out of sight and casting far and straight. And when his sport is terminated by the declining day, or his ample satisfaction, and he meets his companions round the camp-fire, over a well cooked supper improved by a vigorous appetite, he will exchange experiences of the habits of fish or the arcana of the angler’s art.

If, however, he loves the “wet sheet and the flowing sea,” a nautical anomaly, by the way, he may pursue his prey in the open bays, and with a smart breeze and long line, and gaudy fly dancing from wave to wave, have great sport. Under these circumstances the fish are almost uncontrollable and must be often followed with the boat for a long way before they can be killed. It is gloriously exciting, the bright waters sparkling with foam, the light boat leaping over the billows, the sky magnificent in its depth of blue, the fresh breeze cool and strong; and the fish just hooked, furious, vigorous and courageous, rushing hither and thither, plunging to the bottom or springing high out of water. Then the exciting chase as he takes off fortunately down wind, and exhausts all but the few last turns of line on the reel till it becomes a question of speed between him and the boat, and at last his final surrender and capture. Truly is it magnificent.

Rivière du Loup, a little Canadian village situated on the St. Lawrence, opposite the mouth of the Saguenay, is now connected with Quebec by railroad, and is only a day and a half distant from New York. It affords good accommodations, but there is no place anywhere on the Saguenay or at its mouth where the traveller can stop.[6] The Habitans although generally willing to offer such accommodation as they possess, are too dirty in their habits, and often too much beloved of creeping things to suit American taste. So that as there is little or no trout fishing at Rivière du Loup, the angler must make his arrangements for a camp-life, and would do well to descend the St. Lawrence in a pilot boat, which he can hire with a man and boy for two dollars a day, and stop at the mouths of all the streams that debouche into it. The river is over twenty miles wide, and he must look out for storms, as these boats are open and by no means good sea boats. At night he can go ashore, build a fire, put up his tent, and call into requisition the numerous luxuries this mode of travelling will enable him to carry.

A steamboat ascends the Saguenay twice a week, and he can either take it at Quebec or join it at Rivière du Loup, and by this means enjoy a trip through the bold scenery of that celebrated river, and can either return to Rivière du Loup, or take a pilot boat at L’Anse à l’Eau. There is a generous-hearted Englishman living at L’Anse à l’Eau, but he has been compelled to refuse admission to all strangers, as any infraction of that rule would have led to his being overrun.

Many of the streams of Lower Canada are leased to private individuals, and there are few good accessible salmon streams open to the public, but the sea trout fishing along the St. Lawrence and at the mouths of most of the streams is free to all. In Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and at Prince Edward’s Island, there is as yet no restriction, and both salmon and trout are the property of him who can catch them.[7] Nowhere, however, can any salmon fishing or good trout fishing be had except by camping out. Canadian canoemen can be obtained, if not required to furnish canoes, for sixty cents a day, although the Indians, who are far superior, command over a dollar, and where the angler is unacquainted with the water he is to fish, he had better take the latter. They are, however, willful and exacting, and sometimes stubborn and troublesome, while the former are the best-natured fellows in the world, full of fun, song and frolic, but often too fond of the liquor case.

The best river of Lower Canada is the Mingan, but if it is not already leased it soon will be. It can be reached by steamer that leaves Quebec semi-weekly, stopping at Gaspi, at Bathurst on the Bay de Chaleurs, which is near Nipisiquit, the best river of New Brunswick, at several places along the route, and finally at Shediac, whence there is a communication with St. John or Halifax. The steamer running at the time this is written is the Arabian, and leaves Quebec every alternate Monday. The Nipisiquit is within a few miles of Bathurst, where there is good accommodation, and boatmen can be obtained without difficulty, or the fisherman may continue his travels to Dalhousie, at the mouth of the Restigouche, and try either that or the Matapediac. Another mode of reaching the fishing grounds, is to go to St. John, and thence by steamboat to Fredericton, and cross over by land to the Miramichi, at Boiestown, where there is excellent trout and fair salmon fishing. A list of the distances from Quebec, together with further instructions, is given under the head of salmon fishing, as the rivers we have mentioned are properly salmon rivers.

The sea trout fishing is so fine, that many persons prefer it to taking the larger salmon, and can be indulged in almost anywhere along the shores of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward’s Island, Newfoundland and Lower Canada; and were it not for the heavy fogs, the Bay of St. Lawrence would be a favorite resort of our adventurous yachtsmen. The Galway line of ocean steamers now touches at Newfoundland, whose waters abound with the finest fish.

The sea trout ascend to the head-waters of the Miramichi quite early, so that there are none of large size to be caught in the lower section by the middle of July. In that river they average from two to five pounds’ weight. But the Tabasintac, a stream half-way between Chatham and Bathurst, is the most famous sea trout river of New Brunswick. I do not know of any sea trout along the southern shore of New Brunswick.

The scientific designation of this fish is not yet settled, although the United States Fish Commission have given it their attention, and it is to be dreaded that, numerous as he still is, the sea-trout will have disappeared before we know what to call him.

Canada and the Provinces have been immensely developed since much of the above was written; travel is easier, pleasanter, quicker, and accommodations better. But with this improvement have come fishing restrictions, license fees, and government interference, which more than counterbalance the advantages.

LAKE TROUT—SALMON TROUT—TOGUE. (Salmo confinis)

LAKE TROUT—SALMON TROUT—TOGUE. (Salmo confinis)

CHAPTER IV.
A TRIP TO THE LA VAL.

A beautiful breeze was blowing down between the grand old hills of the majestic Saguenay on that first day of August when Walton[8] and myself started from L’Anse à l’Eau in one of the oddly-shaped pilot-boats of the St. Lawrence, for a visit to the Bon Homme la Val. The Bon Homme la Val, a beautiful and romantic stream that falls into the St. Lawrence about sixty miles below the Saguenay, tradition asserts was named by the pious Canadians in the early days of the country after a beloved father confessor. But time and the English, equally utilitarian, have contracted it into simply La Val, and the origin of the name, together with the piety that suggested it, is almost forgotten by the present generation. The sun was shining brilliantly, and the strong northwest wind curled the waves of the ancient river, and crested them with foam; the dark waters surged in their falling tide; the stunted trees shivered in the blast; while the granite hills were as immovable as they had been mid storm and calm for many thousand years; but the pretty little village was all astir with our departure.

It is a fanciful place, with the white houses perched in a nook between the whiter rocks, while the graceful roofs and white-washed walls shining in the sunlight, produces a picturesque effect. The few English families residing there, and their many friends on visit to them, made an agreeable society, drawn closer together by its seclusion from the world at large; and bright eyes looked brighter when there were none others by.

The world of L’Anse à l’Eau was collected on the wharf to witness our departure—the Canadians because they had no better employment, the English that they might bid us adieu. Our pilot-boat, called by the Canadians chaloupe, an open boat some five-and-twenty feet long by seven wide, was crammed full of our numerous traps, plunder or baggage, as it would be variously styled in different parts of our land of freedom. The fishing rods, and one gun, devoted to the destruction of bears for lack of smaller game, were carefully stowed; small barrels, at present filled with meat, but destined to return filled with fish, lay side by side with baskets full of more delicate provender; tents, bedding and innumerable other articles occupied every inch of room. We were experienced in woodsman life, and had no idea of suffering the want of luxuries that could be easily carried with us, and would never trouble us on our return, unless they did it in spite of our teeth. There were preserved soups, meats and fruits, sauces of many kinds, tea and coffee, the latter ground and in bottles of essence; there were brown, white and maple sugars, concentrated milk, flour, indian and oatmeal, barley, rice and potatoes; liquors of many kinds, and other things too numerous to mention. For our protection from the weather, we had two tents and waterproof cloth sufficient for a make-shift, two indian-rubber blankets apiece, one coated on the side the other in the middle, waterproof suits, plenty of blankets, flannels, and warm clothes; and such other things as a gentleman ordinarily carries on a journey. As a defence against the mosquitoes, black flies, sand flies, and other like torments of Satan’s invention, there were veils, the oil of tar, and a mixture of glycerine, turpentine and spearmint. Above our treasures were carefully stowed our two canoes, bottom upmost. In a heavy sea they cannot be towed, as they are apt to fill and tear to pieces.

Few persons know how beautiful and delicate a canoe is. It is manufactured only by the Indian; in that the white man has never equalled him. The best is made from a piece of white birch bark, stripped from the tree in springtime, damped, and after being cut away to the requisite extent, molded into the proper shape. The inside is covered with gum, and a thinner piece of bark fitted upon it, so that though the outer bark be torn, it still does not leak. Over this are passed thin strips of red cedar, lengthwise of the canoe, and crossing them at every inch are ribs of the same wood. The gunwale is formed of a stout stick of hickory or ash, laced to the sides, and four strong but slender thwarts bind the whole firmly together, and serve for seats or supports. Inferior articles are made of but one thickness and of poorer bark. The shape differs according as they are manufactured by the Mountaineers or Micmacs, the two tribes of this region, the former building a long, narrow and graceful boat, easily capsized even for a canoe, and well suited for travel in smooth water; while the latter build a broader and flatter boat, drawing little water and better suited for shoals and rapids. They are mostly manufactured on the south side of the St. Lawrence, birch-trees of the requisite size having almost disappeared from the north shore. The bark is composed of innumerable layers, and is the only known substance that would stand the rough contact with rocks that canoes experience. A volume could be written on the wondrous qualities of birch bark, the woodsman’s invaluable treasure; to him it is a boat, a tent, a table, a plate, a cup, a basket, a pail, a basin, a frying-pan, a tea-kettle, a candle, a flambeau, a cooking oven, writing paper, kindling wood, and almost all the other conveniences or necessaries of life.

The chaloupe being loaded, a long farewell shouted loudly that our spirits might not fail, and we turned our backs on L’Anse à l’Eau, the pretty bay at the waterside. The jib was set, and the grande voile, or foresail, together with the tapecu, or jigger, while the mainsail, called by the Canadians mizzin—for we were a three-masted schooner—was brailed up, not only to give us more room, but because the open boat was then under all the sail she could stagger to. The French are a wonderful people; strange and incomprehensible are the sailing vessels they have produced; but in Canada, aided by the antiquated notions of the English, they surpass themselves and manage to combine in their pilot-boats all the defects of which either system is capable. While the rest of the world has discovered that the more sails a small boat carries the slower she will go, they have carefully cut up what should have been one sail into four; and whereas a pilot-boat is mainly wanted in rough weather, and should be capable of living in any sea, they have built them open, and any heavy wave breaking aboard would swamp them in an instant.

But of all wonderful productions of the human mind the jigger excels; a mast is stepped alongside the stern-post, with a little spritsail hoisted on it; a stationary boom, or out-rigged, is fastened in the stern and projects aft into the water; in the end of this boom an augur hole is bored, through which is rove the sheet to the jigger, and the sail trimmed down or eased off. By this ingenious arrangement all possible disadvantages are combined without one conceivable advantage. However, not to condemn unreasonably, there are conveniences in this singular rig. The bowsprit can be taken out and used to shove off from rocks or a lee shore, and as these vessels are never known to go to windward, that is important; the sprit of the jigger can be used to boom out the mainsail when going wing and wing; any passenger, finding a sail incommodes him, can reach up and wrap it round the mast, out of his way; and in fact, if he were to pull it down and put it in his pocket, no one would miss it; and finally, a Kentuckian might find the mainmast useful, with a little whittling, as a toothpick. It is also rather perplexing that the Canadians should call the foresail the grande voile, which is the proper name for the mainsail, and then call the mainsail the mizzin, in pronouncing which they endeavor to cheat the last syllable of its vowel; whereas, the jigger, if any, is entitled to be called the mizzen. Instead of having a cabin, like Christians, they have amidships, for it is a keel boat, what they call a boîte; and sure enough it is a box, as long as the width of the boat, some seven feet, about two and a half feet deep at the lowest part, and rounding to the shape of the bottom, and three and a half feet wide. Into that they crawl, and two men and a boy have been known to sleep comfortably.

Such was the vessel that was destined to bear us sixty miles down the broad St. Lawrence, and was soon tearing along under the fierce wind that crested every wave with foam. Fortunately, our course lay along the weather shore, for our open cockle-shell would not have lived a minute exposed to the full sweep of the blast and the sea it must have raised on the other side of the river, or even a few miles from shore. Once in a while, a little dash of spray would come hissing on board, or fling itself into our faces; but as the wind was free, we could carry on sail as long as she could keep above the waves, or until she carried the masts out of her. Even that ungainly vessel, driving on in the seething waters, carrying the canoes on her deck, and with her sails straining in the blast, must have been more than picturesque.

On we tore, skirting the dreary, inhospitable coast past the village of Tadousac, past the Moulinbaud, the Escomain, a river once famous for its salmon, but no longer so; past the Patte de Lièvre, a rock of the shape of the hare’s foot, where many years ago the sea gave up its dead, and a cross now stands to mark the grave of the lost nameless one; and the last puffs of the wearied blast urged us quietly into the outlet of Sault de Cochon. At the mouth of this river there is a steep fall, down which once a hog hastily descended much against her will; in her death covering herself with immortality giving her name to the torrent that destroyed her.

Hastily launching one of the canoes, and rigging up our rods, my companion and myself, eager for the fray, commenced tempting the innocent inhabitants of the deep with delusive baits. Evidently Mr. Red Hackle was not one of their intimate acquaintances, and they took to him amazingly. The god of day was already declining behind the western hills, and casting long shadows over the now placid water, but the fish leaped at the fly in innumerable numbers, giving us such sport as we at least never enjoyed before. At almost every cast a trout, varying in size from a quarter of a pound to two pounds and a half, plunging out of water, seized the fly fearlessly in his mouth, while often two or three were on the line at once. Large or small, they were most vigorous, making fierce struggles and mad rushes to escape, their silver sides glancing through the water, and their tails lashing it into a foam. No dull, heavy, logy fish were they, but active and lively, and excellent was the sport they gave; so that when our men, having improvised a kitchen on the rocks, called to us that supper was ready, we were loath to leave our sport. It was then eight o’clock; we had been fishing about three hours, and over one hundred and twenty fish, averaging about half a pound, were the net reward of our skill.

The scene, as we took our supper upon the end of an old tumble-down dock, was peculiar. The light of the fires, making the surrounding darkness the deeper, served alone to illumine with lurid brightness the faces and fantastic dresses of our men, while the roar of the cataract shut out all other sounds. The chaloupe lay below us, its outline just defined upon the dark water, while we, seated upon a log, drank our tea and feasted right royally upon fresh trout and other comforts that civilization had provided us.

Truly incomprehensible are the Habitans of Canada. One of the few inhabitants being without any eatable thing in the house, having scraped the flour barrel till he had scraped off splinters of wood, and, except for our arrival, without the prospect of a meal for the morrow, had soothed his sorrows by inviting his neighbors to a ball. Of course there was no supper; but the music of one fiddle, and the merry spirits of the Canadian girls made up for the deficiency, and when we joined them, after our tea, they all seemed as happy as though stomachs never grew hungry or limbs tired. Being politely offered the belles, we joined the festivities, our potables adding to the merriment of the party, till, with the prospect of a hard day’s work on the morrow, we thought best to retire to the dressing-room and camp upon the floor for the night. Although the bed was hard, and our rest somewhat disturbed by visions of beautiful creatures arranging their hair and dresses by the light of a tallow candle, before the looking-glass in our room, and at last donning their hats for a final departure, we slept tolerably, and the early dawn saw us on our feet, preparing for our departure.

While the men were carrying out our directions, in anticipation of a long absence from civilization, the attractions of the finny tribe were too seductive, and we, yielding to their enticements, again cast our lines in pleasant places, and again, in about three hours, captured over eighty of the speckled silver-sides. The largest weighed two pounds and a half, and was the best fish taken, thus far.

The barrels were arranged, the salt was purchased and stowed, the canoes made fast, the sails set, and, blessed by a still more favorable southwest wind, we got under way for La Val. Its mouth was only about one mile distant, but we intended to ascend it as far as possible with the chaloupe, on the rising tide, and were thankful for the favoring wind. At its outlet lies an island of the same name with the river, behind which stretches a broad, rocky, shallow bay. We escaped by grazing several rocks, and entered a sluggish, canal-like, dirty river, as unlike the La Val of a few miles above as anything can be conceived, and ploughed our way through crowding shoals of sardines, that rose so thick as to tempt us to try to catch them with a scap net. But where the rocks began to be visible as the water became clearer, we drew the chaloupe to the shore, and anchoring her stem and stern, loaded our canoes for the ascent of the river. We took with us the essentials of our camp life, intending to send back for the superfluities after we had established a permanent camp; the river being too low, our canoes would not carry a heavy load.

Armed with iron-shod poles to shove up the rapids, and paddles for the deeper pools, our Canadians took their places and we commenced our ascent. My companion was an expert canoeman, but for myself it was my first real lesson in the unsteady little shells, and seated upon the bottom I awaited every moment a sudden bath. Here the water was comparatively smooth, and little was I prepared for the falls and rapids that were ere long to steady my nerves for anything, and prove what a canoe can do when it is well handled.

While our head guide, with the musical taste that is inherent in the French nature, rang forth—

“Aimez-moi Nicolas,”

the paddles were being plied vigorously, and we shot into the narrow cleft that forms the bed of the La Val. Straight up from the water’s edge sprung the hills on each side, their grey rocks scarcely half covered with stunted spruce, pine and hemlock, and rarely leaving margin enough for underwood to grow upon the bank. The water, now limpid as crystal, poured down in an ever increasing current, and here and there boiled over a hidden rock. On we forced our way, a bald eagle the only contestant for our sole occupancy of the river, past the grey cliffs, the sombre trees, through dark pools, up rapid currents, by banks of clay greyer than the granite hills themselves. On, on, with steady exertions, at every moment ascending toward the source of the wild stream. The water became shoaler, the currents stronger, and the rapids more rocky as we advanced.

Poling up the rapids was strange indeed. Imagine a torrent pouring, hissing and boiling down over rocks, where the foam glistened and the spray danced into the air, sweeping through narrow channels and leaping up and curling over in crested waves; imagine a light, fragile boat, that a man could lift with one hand, forced against such a current, between or even over the rocks, swayed about, swept hither and thither, and once in a while caught broadside on, and, unless quickly righted, carried to instant destruction. Imagine the excited efforts, the quick directions of the steersman, or forward boatman, whose care it is to head the canoe straight, to choose at a glance the deepest channel, and to keep her clear as possible from the rocks. “Arrête! avance! pousse! à droite! à gauche!” with a thousand others, come streaming forth as she touches, swings round, or tries to take her own head. At times she stops entirely, and by main force alone is she pushed over; the rock being distinctly felt as it bends the thin bark, that by its elasticity gives to the pressure and springs to its place the next instant. The men stand erect, exerting all their strength, and handle their poles like a Paddy his shillelah, first on one side, then on the other, then in front and then behind, the iron taking a firm hold of the slippery rocks. Such was our ascent, and deeply interesting it proved to me, although at first it seemed inevitable that the foaming water must ingulf us all, and, destroying our provisions, leave us, if we escaped at all, shipwrecked mariners upon a desolate coast.

I was glad, therefore, at every opportunity to quit the canoe, and clambering as fast as I could over the slippery rocks, post myself ahead upon the point of some batture or ledge of rocks, and cast the fly till the canoe came toiling painfully along. Great was my success, beautiful the dark pools, ever varying the limpid water. The treacherous banks of clay, so slippery that it was scarce possible to stand on them; the dark pines casting a gloomy shadow upon the water, the sombre depths where the current had worn away a cavern for the naiads of the watery realm, made together a picture never to be forgotten. While the innumerable trout were enough to gladden the heart of any true sportsman.

The day was passed and yet our journey not half done; we halted for the night as “The shades of eve came slowly down,” and Walton joined me with his rod while the tent was being pitched and the fire lighted. Glorious was our sport; many a brave fish rose and sunk, and rose to sink no more; either in that region the parent trout had not learned the infant song that in civilized localities they are accustomed to teach their children, or else the mothers did not know the latter were out; for certainly they were not aware of the concealment of the cruel hook under the seeming insect. They showed no fear and we no pity, till the call of “supper” found us with over a hundred fish, averaging a pound and a half.

In conscious innocence and happiness we retired; the fire was bright, the night was warm, the woods were still, the sand was soft, but oh! the sand flies. They came down upon us more innumerable than the locusts in Egypt, and if Pharaoh had only been tormented with them, he would have given up in one night. I tossed and turned and rolled about, hid my head under the blanket, and covered it up with my handkerchief. All to no use; they would still find some means of entrance, the little, invisible things; and they bit till my face seemed on fire. Their bite does not itch like a mosquito’s, but burns, and I never again shall despise a thing because it is small. Compelled to surrender all hope of sleep, I gathered the dying embers of the fire, and adding fuel, drove away the pests, while, at the same time, with infinite relish, I scorched our men, who, to my previous disgust, had been sleeping during my sufferings as though they were in paradise.

By the earliest dawn I had waded into the river and made the discovery that fish, unlike the proverbial birds, will not take the fly too early. Just before the sunlight tinged the mountain-tops, they, thinking to provide their own breakfasts, provided me with mine, so that, when the time came to leave off, I had taken twenty fish weighing over forty pounds.

Immediately after the meal was over, we continued our ascent as rapidly as possible, dreading another experience such as we had endured the previous night, and hurried on to reach our regular camping-ground and pitch a proper tent. On the way, I only had time to catch fifteen, weighing thirty-seven pounds, the largest being of three pounds and a half, and late in the afternoon hailed with pleasure the information that at last we had reached the spot that was to be to us for some time our home. It was a beautiful location; the stream, by a sudden bend, forming a low, long point of land, nearly level, which had been, by previous camping parties, entirely denuded of underbrush and partly of trees. In front, midway in the river, was a large flat rock, beyond which, extending to the further shore, and just fairly within casting distance, lay a deep, black pool. A dead tree leaned over this rock from our side of the river, forming a perilous swinging bridge by which one could reach it dry-shod. Directly across a cool spring brook entered the La Val at a place where the shore was a mass of overhanging underbrush. A pathway had been cut through the woods by some previous salmon fishers to the pools above and below; and with the poles, benches, boards and other insignificant but useful articles left by our predecessors, our camping-ground combined every requisite with many luxuries. At five o’clock the tent was pitched, our necessary part of the arrangements, the head-work done, and Walton and myself commenced fishing. We stood side by side upon the rock already mentioned, and before dark had taken fifty-three trout, weighing one hundred and twenty pounds. They were most vigorous fish, and many a time did their continued runs almost exhaust our lines. We had fished at Sault de Cochon with three flies; on ascending the river had diminished them to two, and now the fish themselves coolly reduced them to one. Almost invariably, if we struck two fish at a time, no matter what pains we took, one broke away with the hook. After a short time, we did not pretend to use more than one, and then had to take great pains in removing it from the mouth to avoid its being destroyed, so tough were the lips and strong the teeth of these noble fish. Indeed, it was soon effectually proved that any fly with the hackle wound from the shoulder to the bend was worthless, the first fish biting away the hackle, which should have been only wound close to the head. Heretofore the destruction of my fly had been a minor consideration, but now I found that I must look to myself, or, although provided with over thirty dozen, there might be danger of my falling short. As it was, the fish destroyed in the course of my trip at least ten dozen.

A delicious night’s rest was the reward of our efforts at arranging a proper camp, and in fact, henceforth there was no trouble from flies, mosquitoes, or any insect, except to a slight degree during the day-time; an annoyance that a segar would effectually dispel. From a quarter before seven to a quarter past eight next morning I alone took twelve fish averaging over two pounds, and during the day, while ascending the river for a short distance to investigate what now became to us a serious question, the depth of water, Walton and myself together caught twelve, and in the afternoon twenty-eight more. In the course of this day we established a rule to throw back all fish weighing under two pounds, a rule we adhered to till our last day in the river. The water proved to be very low, and although at night we occasionally heard the rush of a large fish up the rapids, the salmon had passed above and were probably on their spawning grounds, whither it now began to be very doubtful whether we could follow them. It was late in the season, as we knew, for salmon, although we had come prepared for them, and wished to catch at least a few.

We had picked up at Sault de Cochon, as a super-numerary, a boy of about eighteen, who was one of the most remarkable beings the sun ever shone upon. He would sit for hours with his mouth open and his hands before him, and, unless told, would hardly have sense to eat enough to keep himself from starvation. After dark, our men, with a hook and line and the entrails of a trout for bait, caught some eels, and he, emulous of their success, took the line after they had finished, and concluded he would try his luck. Although he had been watching their proceedings for an hour with the deepest interest, he had no idea what they used for bait, and was forced to inquire. They, with peals of laughter, suggested alternately “a cup of tea, a bit of biscuit, a little ale, a lump of sugar,” and such other anomalous baits. Although he at last succeeded in ascertaining from them what they used, it was not to be supposed that he would catch anything; in fact, it is highly probable he fell asleep over his rod and slept till morning.

The next day we prepared for a portage of five miles to the Lake la Val, a pond of some two miles in length by one in breadth, formed by the river’s spreading out and filling a valley in the hills. Walton donned a heavy basket, Joe, our chief canoeman, took the canoe, while François, the lazy boy, carried a bundle of bedding. We crossed the river, and striking directly into the woods, followed an Indian trail that had probably been there before this continent was discovered by Columbus. The mode of carrying the canoe was truly original; it was reversed and mounted on Joe’s shoulders, and his head being entirely concealed, he steadied it by holding to one of the cross pieces, and, at a distance, looked like some strange animal with a huge trunk, supported by two little legs. It was surprising how he managed it through the trees and among the underbrush, and even ascended places where we were compelled to give our legs the aid of our hands, not, however, without strenuous exertion, and the perspiration streamed from him when, after accomplishing about a mile, he leaned it upon a fallen log and slipped from beneath. Then the warning my friend had so often given me never to wet the bottom of the canoe, because it augmented its weight so terribly, came forcibly to mind. Fortunately François waked up, and having volunteered to carry the canoe over the next stretch, and it being ascertained, to every one’s astonishment, that he knew how, proved himself for the first time of any value, and shortened our journey considerably. During the portage we saw our first game, a spruce grouse so tame that no efforts we made could induce him to fly. He escaped death, primarily because we had no gun, and secondarily because it was out of season. At last, after a trying journey for our men, we passed a deserted lumbermen’s shanty, and found ourselves upon the sandy shore of the lovely Lake la Val.

This beautiful sheet of water, lying amid high sterile hills far from the abodes of man, has remained, and will continue for centuries, unvisited except by the native Indian or the adventurous sportsman. Romantic in its location and appearance, it is remarkable for the number and apparently irreconcilable character of the fish that inhabit its waters. While the voracious northern pickerel and giant mascallonge inhabit the upper part, and the fierce, greedy and powerful salmon have appropriated the outlet, shad or mullet and lake trout, both comparatively inoffensive, dwell in the centre, and doubtless prove an easy prey and grateful food to their natural enemies on either hand. Along the upper margin, weeds grow, and the bottom is in places soft and muddy, while the residue of the shore and bottom is firm white sand. The lake looked, in its broad expanse with the sun dancing on its rippled surface, lovely to us whose eyes had for a time been confined to a narrow gorge or the blue sky above.

Hastily launching the canoe, we descended the outlet, where the water poured over huge bowlders covered with a long, weedy grass, the seeds of which had been washed from the lake. Walton was standing in the bow of the canoe, and shouted with delight, and waved his paddle enthusiastically in air as salmon after salmon flashed up through the water, and shot by, rapid as light. The sight made our nerves tingle, but it was useless to try for them; the water was too clear, and they were dark and long run from the sea. At one point he frantically shouted to stop, and hastily explained that he had seen five salmon and numerous large trout in one deep hole. In vain, however, did we cast our flies, they had been frightened, and probably rushed down the stream, for we could not stir a fin. Descending a short distance further, we halted for dinner, after which, taking advantage of a resting spell, I waded back to the same spot.

The pool lay close beside a little island covered with alders, and by crawling cautiously I kept out of sight, and reaching the head of the island, cast carefully and lightly round it into the pool. The line went out straight the full length, the fly fell like a snow-flake on the water, there was an angry rush, a mighty splash, a quick taughtening of the line, and an enormous fish was fastened to my frail tackle. In his astonishment he fortunately darted up stream, and by skillful management was led round into the other channel, where, after many a struggle and desperate effort to escape, baffled only by prudence and care exerted through a long but exciting half hour, I landed him by walking into the water waist deep, and slipping the net under him. As for leading him to shore, my rod, already bent double would not bear the strain. He was a dark-backed, yellow-sided river fish, and weighed four pounds and a quarter. He was our champion prize, and remained so to the end. The water not having been disturbed, I made another cast, and was rewarded by another fish that weighed four pounds. A brace of beauties, fit to set before a king. The second one, however, so fought and flounced, and kicked and slapped about in the pool, in spite of all my persuasive efforts to induce him to leave it, that the rest grew suspicious, and refused the most seductive baits. My friend looked the least little bit envious when I rejoined him, and mentioned his having previously taken a sea trout at the Mingan that weighed nine pounds. I smiled, of course respectfully. We returned to the lake, having taken in all fifteen fish averaging three pounds, and leaving the canoe on the beach, wended our way through the woods back to our sylvan home, where Pierre received us with a redoubtable supper. Insatiable, however, I that evening took eight, and next morning three, from our preserve, as we called the pool in front of the tent.

As we intended to return to the lake, and might perhaps spear a pickerel, Joe made an égog, which appears to be the Indian name for fish-spear, the Canadians having not only adopted the word, but coined from it a French verb, égogger, to spear. Armed with it, and provided with make-shift tenting materials, we hastened to the lake, and launching our canoe,, tried its virtues upon the pickerel. The latter, however, were so scarce, that we rigged up the more effectual spinning tackle, and took a pickerel and a mascallonge of about twelve pounds each, and struck another of the latter very large, weighing, as well as could be guessed, from his passing close to the boat, about forty pounds. That night, provided with flambeaux, we went out for the purpose of again trying to spear pickerel; but, passing by the outlet of the pond, were so attracted by the numerous salmon, we could get no further.

It was a romantic sight; the canoe, lit up by the blazing flambeau, that was fastened, high above our heads, to a pole fixed in the bow, and by its glare made the surrounding darkness the more impenetrable; the silence of the night was unbroken, except by the dip of the paddle; and calmness of the water unruffled, through which the bewildered salmon lazily floated, following us about, coming so close that we could touch them with our hands, and occasionally jumping frantically into the air, utterly out of their wits and at the mercy of any poacher. Walton was excited, myself enthusiastic, but Joe was frantic; “Egoggez donc! égoggez donc!” he shouted, wildly pushing at the fish with his paddle, and almost ready to jump out of the boat. My friend held the spear in hand—he was a splendid spearsman, and could have filled the boat with salmon; but it was illegal as well as dishonorable to catch them in that manner—he wavered but a moment, and then with a sigh lay down the spear and took up his paddle, the greatest example of self-command and honest sportsmanship I ever knew. General Washington, when he refused to be king, was no greater. My friend was not rewarded if he did not sleep happier for it that night in the old cabin on the shore of Lake la Val; and if the falling pipe of the rotting stove that nearly crushed his head had killed him, he would have died virtuous, respected and without reproach.

Oh, that I had the pen of Julius Cæsar, Homer, Shakspeare, or even Byron, that I might write an ode to sapin, the balsam fir-tree! Tree of the weary woodsman, tree of the luxurious sportsman, tree of all men whom the drowsy god catches in the woods and compels to his embraces! A bed of thy leaves is softer than one of eider-down, and far more comfortable. A prince might sleep on thee and dream he was in paradise. Thou preservest us from colds, from rheumatism, and the many ills that flow from the evil humors of the cold ground. Thy leaves, growing in one direction from the stem, will lie flat, and may be piled to any depth—a foot of luxury, as in our permanent camp—and make a couch that combines the softness of the feather-bed with the firmness of the mattress, and an elasticity purely thy own. To thee, and to thy mate the hemlock, and thy associate the white birch, I now, far from thee, waft, in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, my love. Go on, increase and wax great; may often the one support me on the land, the other on the water!

When the next morning’s sun had once more brought round my birthday, the thirty-first that had ever dawned, we commemorated the fact by undertaking to descend the La Val from the outlet to our home; a roundabout journey of some fifteen miles, in lieu of the portage of five. It was to be a final test of the depth of the water, as the course lay over bad rapids and falls, and we entered upon the journey with great uncertainty. Packing our temporary bedding in a water-proof blanket, our party embarked and sped gaily along for the first mile or two, but soon found the bed of the stream one mass of huge rocks, over which the canoe had to be driven with sheer force, and which tore and strained the fragile bark till it leaked terribly.

During this day our progress was necessarily slow and laborious, and to relieve ourselves we fished continually. The trout rose beautifully—in fact, in one pool they were so thick, sweeping round in shoals, that we grew surfeited, and left it for a spot where they were less plenty. Still it required a long line and light fly to cull the largest—which were the ones we sought—and skill and patience to land them. We might have taken hundreds had the time permitted, or our canoe been in condition to carry them; but every strain had increased the leak till we could no longer keep it down by bailing, and had to land from time to time to turn the water out. In fact, it was a wet time altogether; there was a drizzling rain, the canoe was three inches deep with water, we had both been wading part of the day, and had so arranged our water-proof blanket that it projected beyond the temporary tent, and catching all the water that drained off, would not permit it to soak through, but collected a miniature Lake la Val in the middle of our bed. I being the heaviest, had the most of it; but by the aid of a blazing fire, I slept warm and comfortable till the morning air struck me, when the time came to rise, and sent a shiver to my very bones, giving me at first horrible visions of consumption, night-sweats and early death. Our tally of fish taken during the day amounted to fifty-three, weighing nearly two hundred pounds, and I had captured the greatest weight as yet taken at one cast, landing two fish, one of which weighed two and the other three pounds and a half. A handsome present the river gods made me for my birthday!

The next day, after an hour had been spent in vainly trying to attract the salmon, our journey was continued to the camp, the river as we descended proving worse, the rocks higher, the rapids fiercer, the water lower, our canoe frailer, till it came almost to dragging the latter over the bed of a current instead of floating comfortably along its surface. All hope of ascending to the head-waters was extinct, the rapids above the lake we knew must be worse than those below, and the latter were totally impassable for a loaded canoe. In our despair, we fished steadily at every breathing spell, and might have taken unlimited numbers, for they rose gloriously.

While walking unconsciously along, separated from my companions, I was fairly startled at observing what at first glance seemed to be a female figure seated on the opposite side of the stream beneath the bank. The impression was only dissipated by a close inspection. The rains had scooped out of the bank a dark niche, the edges of which were ornamented with vines and moss and in it was seated a figure of clay, worn to an astonishing likeness of a woman with a gipsy bonnet on her head. She appeared to be seated, and her bonnet, its strings and her dress, were accurately imitated by the curling white birch bark. The color of her face seemed dark brunette, set off by the birch bonnet, that was brought out in strong relief by the heavy shadow of the background. Altogether, it was a startling apparition, and conjured up to my eyes the wondrous sights of the times of elfin power, when my spectre would have made a most perfect wood nymph.

Whether my elf gave me good luck or not, it is impossible to say, but we caught thirty-seven magnificent fish, and after a hard day’s work, during which we had toiled at the canoe and waded most of the way, the camp was no unwelcome sight. It required Pierre’s best culinary efforts to restore our spirits, and soothe our disappointment at being unable to effect a further ascent, in which our worst forebodings were confirmed by Jermain, an additional guide who had followed us, and who reported from his Indian friends that the upper stream was impassable, the water being a foot lower than was ever known before. With sad hearts, therefore, the council of war determined that advance was hopeless, and retreat inevitable; even our splendid sport could not console us.

It had been drizzling all day, and the next morning we devoted to a general drying of wet articles—the camp looked like a grand clothes washing establishment, with lines stretched from tree to tree round a big fire, and hung with clothes. I took some seven trout for dinner, but otherwise the fish had a rest until the morrow, which was to be our last on the river, when we captured twenty-eight, a few of which, however, did not exceed a pound and a half in weight.

The next day came, and good bye to the beautiful La Val. Slowly and sorrowfully we struck our tent, sadly we collected together, and stowed the many little articles that the occasion had hallowed to our hearts. With feelings of deep regret we embarked, and looking our last look at the camping-ground that had been our home, commenced a descent to our chaloupe. As there were three canoes, and only five canoemen, including my friend, I was gladly compelled to take the bow of one and act as steersman. Of course my experience was limited, for, with the exception of having once upset Walton to his intense disgust, I had taken little active part in canoe management, and having for my stern-oar, Joe, whose only idea was to push ahead under all circumstances, we performed manœuvres that astonished more than they delighted our associates. Ours was the leaky canoe that had been patched up with gum and a piece of a shirt for the occasion, and being utterly reckless of it, we shot down rapids and leaped over rocks like a runaway race-horse. Wonderful were our hair breadth escapes; the rapid water, Joe with his “Avancez toujours,” gave me no time to see and less to avoid the half-hidden dangers, even if my skill had been equal to the task, and we darted along amid the foaming current, or plunged headlong down cataracts, at a rate and in a manner that would have surprised a locomotive off the track. We succeeded, however, in keeping straight with the current, and although once or twice our destruction seemed inevitable, we finally arrived safe, though in a leaky and dilapidated condition, at the place where we had anchored our chaloupe. The latter, left to herself, had been trying what she could do on the rocks, and had succeeded, with the aid of a falling tide, in upsetting twice, and so frightening the boy in charge of her that he had fled for refuge to a shanty, which providentially was near at hand.

Joe had taken the opportunity during our last day’s fishing, on hearing of the misfortunes of his boat, to remove her to the Sault de Cochon, so that we had to paddle about two miles in the open St. Lawrence. The river was over twenty miles broad, and, under the influence of a southwesterly wind, was so rough that our unsteady bark danced, tossed and rolled about uncommonly. I could no longer stand up, as I had been forced to do hitherto, and was brought to my knees at once, while even Joe found it safer to sit down on the thwart. No one who has not tried it can imagine what a canoe is in the slightest sea-way; it appears to bob from under you, and rolls and dances so quickly as to render staying in it almost impossible, even if it should not carry out its evident design to turn bottom up. Once at Sault de Cochon and I again tried the fish, having taken, on the descent of the La Val, twelve, and was rewarded as I deserved, by total failure.

The wind had died out, the water lay a perfect mirror, and, crowding down into the narrow cock-pit, we slept till two o’clock in the morning, when a favoring tide helped us slowly along toward our destination. The night passed, and the next day, and we drifted by place after place that we passed before with such rapidity, and sunset again found us only thirty-three miles on our way. We ran into a little bay at the mouth of the Escomain, where, having built a huge fire and eaten a hearty supper, we slept, on a bed of the softest pebble stones, soundly and sweetly till the first grey light of daybreak, when we continued our journey along a coast so poor that the best fed hogs are, as we were credibly informed, light and weak enough to be blown over by a strong wind, and mill-stones, to say nothing of the miller, starve for want of grain.

Again the hills of the Saguenay rise to our view, Tadousac rests calmly in its nook, and the sun shines on the white houses of L’Anse à l’Eau as when we left. Our trip is done. The La Val will live in our memory as long as we can cast a fly—aye, and when gout or age shall have laid us on the shelf. To you, my friend, the genial companion of my trip, I give my thanks; may we meet again, and once more stand side by side upon some projecting rock, as fish after fish rises to our fly. May you long live to enjoy the sport at which you so excel, and may you leave children that can cast a fly as well. To the stately St. Lawrence, to the magnificent Saguenay, to the beautiful La Val, a long farewell.

CHAPTER V.
THE SALMON.

Salmo Salar.—This celebrated fish is totally different in appearance from the trout, having decidedly brilliant scales, colored bluish black down to the lateral line, and beautiful and white as glistening silver below. It has on the gill-covers and upper part of the sides occasionally dark irregular spots. The tail is more forked, and proportionally more expanded than that of the trout, while the fish is of a more slim and elegant shape.

The branchial rays are twelve, and the fin-rays are as follows:

D. 13.0; P. 15; V. 9; A. 9.; C. 19-⁵/₅.

These splendid and valuable fish, whether regarded as an object of the sportsman’s skill or the epicurean’s taste, though once abundant in our State, are so no more. Hendrick Hudson, on ascending the river he discovered, was particularly struck with their immense numbers, and continually mentions the “great stores of salmon.” The last unhappy fish that was seen in the Hudson had his adventurous career terminated by the net, near Troy, in the year 1840. The rivers flowing into Lake Ontario abounded with them even until a recent period, but the persistent efforts at their extinction have at last prevailed, and except a few stragglers they have ceased

ATLANTIC SALMON—(Salmo Salar.)

from out our waters. The willful, stupid obstinacy in building dams without fishways, in crowding the rivers with nets, and neglecting all measures for their protection, have annihilated the noblest of game fish. They are now only to be found in Maine, and to the northward of it. The rivers of Maine are no longer worth the angler’s attention, and if he would have good sport he must proceed to the wilds of New Brunswick or Lower Canada.

In the wild woods of those famed regions they abound, and there, amid the solitude of nature, in its primeval grandeur, the writer has cast the fly over thousands, has lured hundreds from their hidden depths, and seen myriads moving about in their romantic pools, or darting away when disturbed; has waited, casting patiently, for their appearance; has felt the vigor of their first rush; has seen them leap, maddened, high out of water; has experienced all the variations of hope, the exultation of success, and, alas! the agony of failure. He has known them to dart away resistlessly down some impassable rapid, and leap for joy as they broke his frail tackle, and he has seen them panting with the gaff in their sides and the dark blood streaming over their resplendent scales, as his quick-eyed assistant had secured them at the moment the hook was tearing out. Aye, he once had the good luck of having one that was thrown out of water by the blow, the hook tearing out at the same time, caught on the gaff ere he fell back into the watery grave of hope.

The glorious sport! Ye delvers after the ore of gold, hidden as it seems to be in boxes of silk or bales of cotton, in bits of paper or leaves of ledgers; ye weary crawlers through the streets of mammon, who think the world is bounded by the four walls of your ambition; ye who have been brought up to work, as though work were the aim of life instead of the means of its improvement; ye who have laid up a few hundred for some pet dissipation, a visit to Saratoga or Newport, or a fight with the tiger—that man-eater—and ye who must watch every day over your accumulated millions, lest a penny slip into a cranny and be lost, go to the woods, where you will be surrounded by the sombre trees, where the rocks will be your companions and the wind whisper and the stream prattle to you. There you will learn how little it takes to render man comfortable and happy, how but for his reckless passions and extravagant desires all might be satisfied and plenty crown the human race. There, where nature speaks to you in her beauty, in her grandeur, and occasionally in her stupendous power; where the wonders of the universe by day and night are ever present, like old friends; where there is naught but the thin air between the Maker and his beings, you may learn what will be more valuable some day than any treasure of gold or silver. Breathe the pure air, shake off every ill that flesh is heir to; add to your life, if you love it so well, a week for each day, and that a day of never wearying enjoyment. Take rod and gun, aspire to cast the line far and straight and light, feel the struggle of patience, perseverance, skill, resolution, with brute strength and cunning; know the pleasurable anxiety of the chase, the alternate hope and fear, and the final glory of success. Learn the woodsman’s art, the “gentle craft of venerie,” and wonder at the resources of the wilderness, and on your return thank me not, if you can. But that you may do it well, read the following prosy instructions carefully, for if they be not entertaining they be useful.

The rod for salmon fishing should be from sixteen to twenty feet long; one of sixteen, or even fifteen, if well made and elastic, will answer. It must be strong and stiff, but not too heavy, and the further it will cast the greater will be the success. Salmon are more wary than trout; if they see a horrible, ill-shapen being, like man, lashing at them with a long whip, they lie close to the bottom, and it is only by keeping well out of sight, and never disturbing or approaching the pool, that they can be tempted. A short rod, though it may be capable of casting the requisite distance, will not give sufficient command nor enable the angler to lift the fly with facility.

The fly must be cast straight, light, and as far as possible; it must be put exactly upon the right ripple, and must fall like a snow-flake; it should, if the water is still, be allowed to sink a few inches and then drawn up to and along the surface a foot or so, again allowed to sink, and so on till it is raised for another cast. It is not moved as rapidly, nor with precisely the same tremulous motion as in trout fishing. Often a long time passes before a fish, no matter how plenty they may be, will rise; and when he does come, it is as often to play with and slap at the fly as to take it. Nothing is more provokingly exciting than to have a magnificent fish rush again and again at your fly, leap over and around it, break near it or strike at it with his tail, without, however, showing the slightest desire to take it in his mouth.

A fish hooked foul, though he gives a great deal of trouble, and often breaks the tackle, does not afford half the legitimate sport of one that has the hook in the mouth.

When fish are playing thus, and it is fully determined that they will not take the allurement presented them, no matter how attractive, it becomes necessary to substitute another, and continue so doing till their dainty palates are satisfied.

When they finally take hold, have a care for their first rush; the pain, if pain they feel, or astonishment, drives them wild, and they dash and fling themselves about, leap out of water, and carry on generally in a manner to surprise weak nerves. Finding their efforts to escape vain, they will dart down the nearest rapids, and here they must be followed if the water is too shallow for the canoe, by the angler, with the agility of the antelope. He must have feet, hands, and eyes for everything. The fish must be guided through the safest current, the line kept clear of rocks, while the angler must pursue his course through pools and over ledges and bowlders, slippery with the water, and requiring the sureness of foot of the chamois. On, on he must go, regardless of falls or bruises, his reel making sweet music to the uncoiling line, keeping within sight of his prey till the latter reaches the next pool or resting-place. After an hour’s struggle in this, he may take down another rapid in the same vigorous style. In these descents the angler will find his gaff, if shod with iron, a great convenience in steadying his steps, and heavy shoes with iron nails will in a measure prevent his slipping and will obviate stone bruises, although they are apt to break the delicate knees of the canoe, and should be removed before getting into one, and moccasins or slippers substituted. There is a well authenticated story of one fish that was struck at six o’clock in the evening, followed down through three rapids, and finally lost at half-past ten o’clock that evening.

Salmon will sulk, remaining motionless at the bottom for a long time after they are wearied with an unsuccessful struggle, and must be aroused with pebbles, bearing on the line, or in some other way. Many of the pools in the Canadian waters have been worn out of clay banks, and their sides under water are often perpendicular or overhanging. When the fish sulks in one of these, the line cuts into the edge of this bank, and is of course broken to pieces by the first rush.

Gentleness will do much with fish, as with other reasonable beings, and a friend of mine saved a number in a pool above an impassable rapid, where other anglers had pronounced fishing impracticable, by striking and handling the fish with extreme delicacy till they were led to the head of the pool away from the dangerous neighborhood.

There is no superlative salmon line made; the best, probably, plaited silk, tapered and covered with a preparation to exclude the water; but that in general use is of hair and silk plaited or twisted—a combination that, as we elsewhere remark, is by no means advantageous; a plain hair line is preferred by careful anglers, and simple silk will answer. The leader should be of single gut, if round and strong, and may be colored in tea. Double gut will break the rod but not save the fish. The flies, contrary to the received opinion in Europe, should be dark, especially clarets and browns, above all the impalpable “fiery brown,” and of rather a small size, with a few larger for rough water. The reel should be large enough to carry two hundred yards of line, although with activity and a hundred an angler may make out.

As for the number of fish, even in the best streams, those who read Lanmann must receive his statements with, to use a moderate term, some allowance. Ten or twelve fish in the course of a day is excellent luck, and will keep the angler sufficiently occupied and excited, but the average good fishing through the season is not half that number, and there are many blank days. The upper shore of the St. Lawrence furnishes the largest fish, but New Brunswick the most abundant. The rivers in the former are mostly leased to individuals by the government, and of course closed to the public except by the consent of the lessees. That famous association called the Hudson’s Bay Company, a kingdom within a kingdom, until a few years ago, were sole proprietors of fishing rights, but having taken pains worthy of our emulation to destroy the fish, the government curtailed their privileges, and passed stringent laws and regulations, which are set out in the appendix, for the preservation of the fish.

The rivers of New Brunswick are still free.[9] The fly-fishing in Canada lasts till the first day of September, and in New Brunswick till the fifteenth; but the net fishing terminates earlier, and in Canada all spearing or fishing by torchlight is stringently forbidden. These laws are, strange as it may seem to us, enforced with commendable energy in Canada, though in New Brunswick our mode of letting the people override the laws prevails.

The best river in New Brunswick beyond all comparison, is the Nipisiquit, emptying in the Bay of Chaleurs, and near it are several almost as prolific.[10] In Lower Canada the Mingan, the Moisie, the Busamite stand preëminent, but have many rivals. Directions for reaching them have been given under the head of sea trout fishing, but instead of taking a sail-boat, as there suggested, from any port on the river St. Lawrence, the same might be done either from Bathurst or Prince Edward’s Island, both of which are nearer the lower streams.

There are many excellent rivers on the coast of Labrador as far as the Straits of Belle Isle, or even farther, and they would be well worth a visit, either in one of our clipper yachts or in a fast schooner. Many are entirely beyond the realms of civilization, and a pleasant party might have a glorious time and abundant sport.

It would be necessary to take canoemen and canoes, or what is strongly recommended, small, light flat-boats that can be rowed or poled by one man, and which can be purchased for five dollars apiece at most of the gulf seaports.

Arm yourself, then, with two good salmon rods; they may be so made us to constitute a trout rod as well, not by any means one of those detestable nondescripts called a general rod, but two rods distinct with joints fitting to each other. Take with you two good lines, plenty of flies, extra gut and hooks, leaders and feathers, and a strong hook gaff, but not that dangerous, unwieldy instrument called a spring gaff. Thus equipped, go forth conquering and to conquer, and may good luck attend you. Seek any of the rivers we shall name, ascend them in your fragile canoe, station yourself early in the morning or at the approach of evening, choose your best fly, keep well out of view, cast far and light, and may you many and many a time be rewarded with the fierce rush of the mighty salmon, his struggle and final conquest, and may your sleep be sound and your heart at rest amid nature’s primeval hills. May the black flies and mosquitoes spare you, may the sand-fly not find you out, may the heat be tempered to you by day and the cold by night, may you not lose your footing too often, nor fall too hard, and may your fish be the largest, strongest and bravest that ever were taken. May you receive that mercy which you show, never drawing one drop of useless blood, nor causing one unnecessary pang.

The aid of all good men and true is needed both by precept and example, to save the tenants of the water from final extermination. By putting restraint upon ourselves, never being guilty of wanton slaughter, by steadily urging measures for the preservation of the game, and by invariably obeying and compelling others to obey such laws as should be passed, we may be able to leave to our children a heritage of pleasure that bountiful nature has abundantly provided for ourselves. No fish are more defenceless and more readily destroyed than trout and salmon; there are certain prerequisites to the continuance of the species that must be complied with. The fish must ascend to the fresh water to spawn, and if prevented by an improperly constructed dam, will quit the locality never to return.

It should be known that, contrary to the usually received opinion, salmon cannot surmount a fall of much over ten feet; this, probably, is the full extent of their powers. And in effecting this, much depends upon the depth of water at its foot; the deeper it is the higher they can leap. They do not take their tails in their mouths, according to the ancient theory, to enable them to spring higher, but rush with their utmost velocity from the bottom, and are carried by their momentum a considerable distance out of water. Such a leap or a struggle against strong rapids weakens them, and they must soon rest to recover strength for another ascent. They thus congregate below each fall, and often make many efforts before they overcome it. They usually move at night or early in the morning. A dam of fifteen or twenty feet will effectually exclude them from any stream, but may be rendered innocuous at small expense by placing below the wasteway boxes of heavy wood, with a fall of not over five feet from one to the other. A salmon leaps from the river to the first, from that to the next, and so on till he has overcome the barrier. A broad sluiceway leading at a moderate angle to the pool below, will probably answer as well.[11]

The fish, as they enter the rivers, may be deterred from entering, or all captured in nets spread entirely across the mouth, and when those that do pass have reached the spawning beds, they are peculiarly exposed to the cruel spear. At night, by this instrument, with the aid of flambeaux, hundreds may be killed and many more wounded and left to perish miserably. If they are to continue in reasonable numbers, nets must not be set close together, the spawning beds must be undisturbed, and the murderous spear utterly prohibited. With these precautions and a regulation concerning the sized mesh that is used, this valuable source of pleasure, health and profit may not only be retained but indefinitely augmented; without such care the day is not far off when “the places that knew them will know them no more,” when their bright sides will no longer gleam beneath the waves or glisten as they gambol in the sunlight, when the nets will cease to yield a return, when the fishermen, longing regretfully for their most valuable prize, will find their occupation gone, and honest and dishonest, fair fisherman and sneaking poacher, alike be overwhelmed in one common ruin. Surely we have too much good sense, too much public spirit, too much energy and determination to submit to such a calamity; let us unite, then, in repressing unseasonable and unlawful fishing, in preserving and protecting the fish, and in restoring rivers that have been exhausted.

In the salt water, salmon never take the fly, and rarely bait of any kind, although they feed on sand eels and small fish in addition to shell-fish; but as they advance into brackish or fresh water, they either miss their natural food and become hungry, or get accustomed to feeding on grasshoppers and insects, and are deceived by the artificial fly, and will at times take the bait.

When they leave the salt water, the sea-lice that have fastened to them fall off, frequently to be replaced by fresh-water parasites, and this is sometimes given as the reason for their leaving the sea so early in the year, although they do not spawn till the Fall. While spawning they are unfit to eat, and after the operation are utterly exhausted. In this condition, when returning to the sea, they are termed kelts, the male being distinguished as a kipper and the female as a baggit. As the spawning season approaches, a curious cartilaginous hook grows from the lower jaw, which is supposed to be a provision of nature to prevent an unfortunate termination to the many desperate contests between the males at that period.

The habits of salmon are by no means determined; in fact, little is known positively about them. It has been even suggested that grilse are a distinct species, although it is hardly doubted with us but they are young salmon. Their times of visiting the fresh water are subject to peculiar individual exceptions; in fact, it may be said there are two opinions among fishermen, and persons who have watched salmon for twenty and thirty years assert that some are ascending while others are descending. Izaak Walton says that salmon spawn in August, which is directly contrary to the views of other English writers, and certainly not in accordance with the practice of our fish. Others again say they return to the salt water in September, and reascend the rivers later in the Fall. The young in all stages have been disputed over, and called by divers names, such as pinks, smolts, parr, brandling, samlet, peal, grilse, until one hardly knows what sort of fish he really has captured. Every writer has his theory, and the following is mine; it may be true or not, but the statements of fact are.

Salmon are never found in our rivers except in three stages: First, a little fish much like a trout, but with a larger eye and richer colors; they have no blue spots, but have darker bands on their sides; they weigh from half an ounce to half a pound. Second, the grilse, which is precisely like a salmon, except that it weighs from two and a half to six pounds. Third, the salmon, which weighs from eight to eighty pounds. Salmon first appear in the fresh water about the 10th of June, and grilse a month later. The main run of the former is from June 15th to August 15th in New Brunswick, and from June 10th to July 20th in Canada. The explanation of this difference is simple: the Canadian fish are much the largest, averaging double the size of their more southern brethren, and as the waters fall during the hot months of Summer, they must ascend earlier than smaller fish, and before the spring freshets have entirely subsided, or they would never reach the high waters at all. Straggling fish, however, are running up at all seasons, early and late, and a few probably remain in the fresh water the entire year, or descend only when they are sickened by a lengthened residence in an unchanged element. Salmon do not spawn in Summer, but in Winter, commencing not earlier, and often later, than October; the fish that ascend last probably spawn last. Then they return to the sea; but not at once, some remaining under the ice through the Winter, others going immediately. My theory, therefore, is that the young fish, whether you

CARP.

call them fry, or pinks, or smolts, or peal, go to the sea usually a year after their birth, but with no invariable regularity, and will then average six ounces in weight, many undoubtedly waiting till the Fall, or eighteen months after birth; that they return the succeeding July grilse;[12] that the grilse spawn the following November, and after visiting the sea, reappear next Spring as salmon. The young fish are taken with the fly through the Summer in all the salmon rivers, and require a second glance to distinguish them from young trout, although they are very different, one decisive peculiarity being that their backs are arched or hogged, and another, as I have mentioned, that their eyes are large. The fry of trout—and recollect grown trout are not banded—have light sides, and are found usually in more quiet water. It would be well if sportsmen should call the fish in question respectively salmon fry, grilse, and salmon, and eschew all other fanciful names, as leading only to confusion.

Salmon are never taken in fresh water with any food in their stomachs; they are reported not to eat their young, and do not apparently feed on flies. The fry feed almost entirely on flies, and I have seen them pick off one after another as skillfully as a trout; but I have never distinctly seen a salmon take a natural fly. When they spring out of water, it is in play, and at such times, contrary to the rule with trout, casting over them will be in vain, they will not rise. Moreover, our flies do not in the least resemble the natural flies of the rivers, which are of a dull green, and the salmon rivers afford very few flies at best. Observe me, I do not refer to mosquitoes or black gnats, at neither of which would gentlemanly fish deign to look. My theory, therefore, is, that salmon do not feed during the spawning season, but are supported by the animalculæ in the water, and have poor commons at that, as their miserable condition soon testifies. Many varieties of fish live without apparent food, often with the additional disadvantage of infrequent change of water, as goldfish in a globe.

When salmon first arrive in the harbors, they coast along the shore, and are then taken in nets, which are required by law to have a mesh too large to capture grilse; later, they leave the warm shallows, and follow the cooler channel beyond the nets, which are only permitted to extend a certain distance. The tide-water fishing is therefore practically over by the 1st of August. Net fishing above the salt water is forbidden, or at least subject to the same restrictions, which, if they were enforced, would almost put an end to it; but, discreditable as it may seem, and short-sighted as such conduct unquestionably is, this law is totally disregarded in many rivers, where of course the fish are rapidly diminishing. They spawn over gravelly flats and pools, covering up the ova after impregnation, and then descend slowly, greatly emaciated, ugly and woe-begone, to the sea. At such times, although they will still take the fly, they are unfit to eat, and while they notwithstanding frequently fall a victim to the cruel spear of the murderous savage, no true angler nor honest man will harm them.

Casting the fly gracefully and effectively is a peculiar art, hard to acquire, and picturesque to witness; it is altogether different from slashing the water, and almost as difficult of mastery as the corresponding science of trout fishing. The rod, being long and comparatively heavy, must be held in both hands, which are changed occasionally so as to alternate that at the but, and teach the angler to cast over either shoulder. The line is lengthened to the proper distance, is raised with a springing jerk, swung out straight behind, and then again cast forward with the same springy motion. The work has to be done with the tip, which, except in casting against the wind, must be kept as elevated as possible. The stiffer the rod the more command the angler has over his line in avoiding the rocks and making the best of awkward places; but this is counterbalanced by the disadvantages of excessive weight and a stiffness in striking that frequently breaks the casting line. A rod will cast four times its length beyond the tip; one of sixteen feet, therefore, will cast sixty-four feet of line, ordinarily abundant; and although one of twenty feet will cover sixteen more feet, unless it is made of cedar it is uncomfortably heavy. A cedar rod would be perfection, but it is not to be trusted in the hands of a bungler.

When there is any current, and it is rare to take salmon elsewhere, the fly is cast across the stream and allowed to swing over the fish, which invariably lie with their heads up-stream. When a salmon intends to rise, he generally separates himself from his companions and waits till the fly approaches to the precise distance that pleases him. Then

“Strike for your altars and your homes,”

not too hard, but as quick as the lightning from the sky, and this although contrary to the English books, on the ground that a salmon, if he rises once and fails to touch the fly, will always come again. If, however, he has tasted the unappetizing morsel, and has not been hooked, for he is quick to spit it out, you will see him no more. If you fail to hook a fish on the first rise, it is well if you can keep your impatience under control, to rest him by casting elsewhere a few times, and if you fail to strike him on the third rise, change your fly. Salmon are extremely particular and dainty in their tastes, and it is never advisable to fish too long with one fly unless they take it well.

The great rules are—keep out of sight, change your flies and rest the pools. The best time of a clear day is early and late, and in the midday heat not a boat nor a line should disturb the water; in fact, a pool that a canoe has crossed is ruined for the day, and when there is no rising, there is little good in casting. A pool that is not disturbed at night would be found much better, as a consequence, in the morning.

But after your fish is hooked, after he is played and almost played out, after you have exhausted him, and brought him skillfully and carefully to shore, he is not yet in the pot; nor will he be unless you have an assistant expert with the gaff. There are all sorts of directions about this important operation, some authors saying a fish must be gaffed in the shoulder, others preferring the tail, some the belly, and some the back, but, in fact, one place is as good another; the main points are not to miss nor graze him, and not to jerk so hard as to throw him off the gaff. To prevent this, where you anticipate finding only awkward aids, it is well to carry a gaff with a small barb, like an ordinary hook. I have had the indescribable pleasure of seeing my fish flung across the boat, and dropped in the water on the other side. The moment the fish is struck, the handle should be held perpendicular, so that he cannot flounce off.

The best size for this implement is a length of nine inches from the end of the shank to the middle of the bend, from the latter four inches in a straight line to the point, which should be delicate and sharp, and at least two inches and three-eighths from the inner edge of the shank opposite; the bend should swell out so as to be three inches across at its widest, and the end of the shank must be bent back and sharpened; the steel tapers gradually from the point to a thickness of one quarter of an inch. Being nothing more than a large hook, it is easily carried, and when wanted for use, fastened to any suitable stick by driving in the projection on the shank, and winding the whole with stout cord. For very large salmon, a stronger and larger gaff would be desirable, and for grilse a smaller one.

When fish run, and throw themselves out of water, some writers direct you to taughten your line; but I say, heed them not. Your line is well out and sunk to some distance, the very jump of the fish will consequently bring a great strain on the hook, without your aid, and many a fish is lost by such usage. On the contrary, if you give to him as he leaps, you diminish the tension, and then the quicker you take up the line after he has fallen back, the better. If, on the contrary, when he leaps he is near by you, and your line straight and out of water, he will try and strike it with his tail to break it, in which he may also be foiled by giving to him. My experience is to this effect, and you will soon find out, if the fish are large and strong, how hard it is to do otherwise.

It has been said that four times the length of the rod beyond the tip is the utmost length of line that can be handled with dexterity; it is not meant that more cannot be cast, for I have often cast five times the length, but with an effort that soon becomes wearisome, and, if across a rapid current, without the requisite command. It is best to fish down stream, if possible, as otherwise your line sinks, and even in fishing across there will be considerable slack line. This is a second reason for rapid striking. There is another mode of managing a line, which is sometimes called casting, and by which a distance of eighty yards can be covered. The angler has a rod as thick at the tip as one’s little finger, and a hair line as thick as the tip. Of course no reel can be used, as such a line would not run through the rings, or be contained on the barrel. The line tapers regularly to the fly. It is usually used in rapid water, and to cast, the fisherman waives his rod from side to side, lifting as much of it as possible clear of the water, and then throws out strongly with an underhand motion. The line rolls, as it were, raising itself from the water, as the impetus advances, till the fly is taken up and jerked over, so to speak, at an incredible distance. When a fish is struck he is drawn in by hand. I have not tried this proceeding sufficiently to speak positively, but think that the heavy waxed lines now in general use would answer to a comparative degree. It is a difficult though not refined mode of fishing, and is the only way of casting eighty yards.

The following is a list of the principal salmon and trout rivers of Canada and New Brunswick, with the distances of the former from Quebec, and such information as could be obtained concerning their character and condition. Those marked in italics have been leased to private individuals, but the leasing changes year by year.

In New Brunswick there are salmon in the St. John and its tributaries, but the best of the latter, the Nashwaak, has been closed with an impassable dam. From St. John it is easy to take the cars to Shediac, and cross to Prince Edward’s Island, where there is magnificent trout fishing, especially near Charlotte, and tolerable accommodation; or one can take the Quebec steamer to Bathurst and fish the Nipisiquit, which is admitted to be the best river in the province, or the Restigouche and its tributaries, an excellent stream, but much injured by spearing; or the Cascapediacs, which furnish some salmon and innumerable grilse. The Miramichi, between Shediac and Bathurst, is a fine large stream.

The streams in Canada emptying into the St. Lawrence from the south shore, are hardly worth mentioning as salmon rivers, having been ruined by mill-dams, with the exception of those that empty into Gaspé basin, but they all afford superior trout fishing. I would here remark, that where the name trout is mentioned in connection with the British Provinces, the Salmo Trutta Marina, or sea trout, is always intended; and the salmon fishing spoken of is fly fishing. The rivers that empty into Gaspé basin, such as the Dartmouth, York and St. John, are leased, as also the Bonaventure, that flows into the Bay of Chaleurs.

As explicit directions for travelling through the benighted regions called the British Provinces, the following are given from a somewhat unwillingly extended experience.

Take the night train or any route that will bring you to Boston before half past seven A.M., for at that hour the boat leaves for St. John, not St. Johns, which is in Newfoundland. If you are too late, you may still, by means of the cars, intercept the same vessel at Portland. This boat does not leave daily, but generally advertises in the New York and always in the Boston papers. It touches at Portland, where you may take a steamboat on its arrival to Calais, and proceed thence by railroad to the Scoodic River, where there is fine white, not sea, trout fishing, or stop at St. Andrews, whence there is a railroad in progress to Woodstock, on the St. John River. The Boston boat reaches St. John in about thirty-two hours, or at three o’clock; the fare is six dollars; the meals extra, and, consequently, extra good.

The Waverley House, in St. John, kept by J. Scammell, affords the best, though poor, accommodation, at a reasonable price. A train leaves on the arrival of the boat for Shediac, and makes the one hundred and ten miles in six hours, at a fare of three dollars. From Shediac a steamboat that connects with the train carries you to Chatham in twelve hours for three dollars and fifty cents, the meals being extra and infamous. At Shediac, John Q. Adams keeps the Adams House, and will furnish information by letter as to the time of the starting of the boats. Bowser’s Hotel is the best in Chatham. From Chatham to Bathurst, forty-five miles, you are compelled to travel in a stage that only leaves three times a week, and never on the arrival of the boat, and will occupy ten hours of your time at a charge of three dollars and a half; or you may take an extra for sixteen dollars. If you hire one of Kelley, the stage proprietor, make a tight bargain, for he is Biblical and takes in strangers. In case you should be too late to reach Bathurst the same day, or have leisure on your hands, stop at the Half-way House on the Tabasintac, which has the last syllable accentuated, and fish that night and the next morning for sea trout. They are taken from a horse-boat in abundance and of great size.

In Bathurst there is a good hotel called the Wellington, kept by Mr. Baldwin, with the efficient aid of Mary; and also a more private establishment, by Bela Packard, which is the customary resort of Americans. There is a telegraph from St. John to Bathurst, and Baldwin will meet at Chatham any guests that send him word, and bring them to Bathurst for fourteen dollars. In the latter place, Ferguson, Rankin & Co. will furnish all the heavy outfit, such as pork, biscuit, butter, tea, sugar, tobacco, and will have them ready put up if written to beforehand. As it is customary on the Nipisiquit to loan the guides blankets, the same firm keep them on hand, and will lend them to those that buy stores of them. Once or twice a month the Arabian leaves Shediac and stops within a couple of miles of Bathurst, and if you can manage to suit your time to hers, you can go direct and be ticketed through for ten dollars. Her days may be ascertained at the office of the Boston boats, but it is well to telegraph to Bathurst to have a canoe to meet you, as otherwise you may have difficulty in reaching town from the landing. The same steamer and its associate, the Lady Head, run to Dalhousie, at the mouth of the Restigouche, or a stage for that place leaves Bathurst three times a week. The Lady Head does not stop at Bathurst, on account of her draught of water.

On the Nipisiquit it is customary to have a camp-keeper or cook for the party, and two canoemen to each angler; they furnish the canoe and receive one dollar a day each. The following are good men: John, Peter and Bruno Chamberlain; John makes a good fly, but is sulky and willful; Bruno is lazy; Ned Veno and David Buchet, both of whom are excellent and willing, and Fabian Bodereau, who is a fair cook. To save your men some heavy work, where you do not intend to fish the Rough Waters, you drive with your stores to the Round Rocks, the Pabineau Falls, or, if you please, even to the Grand Falls, but the latter part of the road is bad.

The only fishing on the Miramichi is above Boiestown, and to reach it you leave St. John in the night or day boat for Fredericton, arriving there in eight hours at an expense of one dollar and a half. The night boat runs three times a week. The best house in Fredericton is the Barker House, kept by Mr. Fairweather, and in this city you must get your supplies for the woods. The stage leaves every Tuesday and Friday for Boiestown, nominally at ten A.M., and reaches that collection of huts nominally at six P.M. The fare is two dollars and a half, and the ordinary charge for an extra is ten dollars, but remember the stage proprietor is Kelley. The best tavern in Boiestown is kept by Avery, but about five miles up the river, at Campbelltown, is a nice house owned by William Wilson, and the true plan is either to write to him to meet you at Fredericton, or drive over to his place. He will engage your men, aid you with the supplies, provide you with bread, besides making you generally comfortable, and you have gained so much in the ascent of the river. The stage from Boiestown runs to Chatham, and by that means you may continue to the Nipisiquit, but there is no reliance to be placed on it, and an extra from Fredericton to Chatham, one hundred and ten miles, costs thirty dollars. The stage fare is seven, and there is no telegraph to Boiestown.

One of the most interesting ways of reaching the various rivers of New Brunswick is by portaging from the head-waters of one into those of another. For instance, a steamboat leaves Fredericton semi-weekly, when the water is not too low, for the Grand Falls on the St. John; a few miles above, the Grand River debouches, from the head-waters of which a short portage of a few miles takes you into the Waugan, one of the branches of the Restigouche, or you may stop below the Falls and ascend the Tobique, a noble river, full of salmon, but which, strange to say, will not take the fly, and from Lake Nictou, the source of the Tobique, you can readily portage into Lake Nipisiquit, and by ascending the main forks of the latter, a short portage puts you on the Upsalquitch, a branch of the Restigouche, and abounding in salmon. Another confluent of the St. John, the Shiktahauk, is crossed at its head by the Royal Road, where a wagon can be had to convey your baggage to a branch of the Southwest Miramichi, and from Newcastle, at the mouth of the latter river, you can ascend the Northwest Miramichi and strike the Nipisiquit near the Grand Falls. These are but a few of the simplest voyages that may be made, but a glance at the map, or a talk with any old Indian guide, will reveal many others. [13]

CHAPTER VI.
NEW BRUNSWICK.

One bright moonlight night in the early part of Summer, a heavy wagon, drawn by two powerful horses, was bowling along one of the dreary level roads of the province of New Brunswick. It was loaded down with trunks on the rack, barrels under the seats, that were built on springs above the sides for that purpose, and bundles and bags innumerable in the bottom, and two long leathern cases that suggested salmon rods. It carried three men; the driver, tall and spare, with a shrewd eye, and long, curly, black hair, was turned half-way round in the seat, assuming an attitude that combined comfort with facility of conversation. On the back seat, a middle aged gentleman, whose hair and beard were silvered o’er, but whose eye was bright as in his earliest youth, and a younger man of stout build with brownish hair and beard. Their talk was of the forest, and many thrilling tales of danger, or exciting ones of the chase, were told; vivid descriptions of how the moose, the caribou, the red deer, met his fate; stories of the tiger, the wild boar, the rhinoceros and unwieldy elephant; or peaceful description of killing the beautiful trout, the fierce, striped bass, or the voracious mascallonge. The time wore pleasantly away as they passed along between the sombre lines of spruce and hemlock and juniper, as they ran into the deep shade or emerged into the open moonlight till they came in sight of the Nashwaak, seaming the dark earth like a vein of silver, when a glorious view presented itself to their attention. Far away as the eye could reach, stretched the valley of Nashwaak, silent as the repose of death; not a sound but the rattle of the wheels broke the still air, while the moon bathed the rocks, the earth, the trees, with its uncertain light, formed weird shapes out of the foliage, or cast strange shadows across the road. Still on, however, scarcely pausing—as every true sportsman must pause before the beauties of nature—the party were soon lost in the shady descent that led toward the bank of the stream, whose course they followed some miles, crossing it beyond, over a high, substantial bridge. The road then branched off, traversing the unbroken wilderness, where for miles not a habitation was visible, till midnight found them amid a heavy shower at McCloud’s, the half-way house from Fredericton to Boiestown.

The horses under the shed, a sound thumping on the door brought out the host, who attended to the wants of man and beast, and sent them on their way rejoicing, as soon as the storm had abated. There was little variety in the scene; the road was mostly level and good, the forest was of the same dull character, with many dead trunks towering up amid it; there were few houses and no settlements, and the country was principally one vast plain. As the morning light began to streak the east with grey, they came in sight of the peaceful Miramichi, and turning off from the main road across the Taxes River, followed the course of the larger stream, till, nearly opposite a beautiful spring, where they had stopped to water their horses, they turned into a barway, and in a moment more reached Wilson’s, their prospective head-quarters.

Wilson’s habitation was a quaint-looking log house, perched on the edge of a bank overhanging what is called the interval, or fruitful stretch of level land lying between the river and the hills, and its evident antiquity bore testimony that it had belonged to one of the earliest settlers.

A well-stocked garden, an extensive barn, a large drove of sheep and cows, suggested what an industrious and comely wife and daughter confirmed, that Wilson’s was a well-to-do family.

As a general thing, the people of this region are of the most short-sighted possible character; they live for the present, and an easy way of making a dollar is irresistible, though it may entail the final loss of ten. The country is slowly going back to a savage condition; farmers, instead of attending to their farms, speculate in lumber, because it enriches one man in fifty; mortgage their farms, which are sold under foreclosures to strangers and allowed to grow up with weeds and bushes. Tens of thousands of acres are in this condition, and are being fast rendered irreclaimable. Instead of encouraging fishermen to come and spend money among them, although they admit it is about the only money they see, they annoy and overcharge at such a rate that they have driven away all but a few from Fredericton. Instead of preserving and increasing the fish, they obstruct the channel entirely with nets, striving by one grand haul to destroy the supply forever. To this general rule Wilson is the only exception, and may be relied on, not only to do whatever in reason is required of him, but to do it at a moderate price. His only extravagant charge is for driving to Fredericton to meet his guests.

The guides were waiting for us, and after making the requisite preparations and passing a comfortable night in the old log house, we started next day on our journey toward the head-waters of the Miramichi. Our canoes were made of the log of a tree, and familiarly called dug-outs, and were admirably adapted to the purpose. Being extremely long, sometimes thirty feet, and narrow, they offer every convenience for poling, draw but little water, and are not injured by contact with a rock, that would pierce the thin bark of the delicate birch canoe, and will hold their way better against a strong rapid. They are made of the trunk of some towering branchless pine-tree that the adventurous woodsman has marked during the winter for his own, and which, after being cut down, is transported to a convenient place, where it is hewn into the shape of the outside of the boat. Augur holes are bored in the bottom, and pegs, two inches long, are driven, to answer for guides as to thickness. The inside is then roughly hewn away, till the pegs are reached, when it is smoothed off, being left two inches thick at the bottom, and a half inch at the gunwale. Slender knees are introduced at proper distances to prevent its warping under the sun; a brace is fastened across from gunwale to gunwale, near the stem and stern, and the boat is complete. It is worth about twelve dollars, and having neither braces nor thwarts, but an open space its entire length, is convenient for holding a long rod, and being steadier under foot, offers many advantages over the birch canoe. It is particularly excellent in descending a shallow river, where occasional contact with rocks is inevitable; but is too heavy to portage comfortably. For rapid travel, either up or down stream, it is invaluable.

Our baggage was stowed, a comfortable seat made with the end of the tent upon the bottom of the canoe, our rods were rigged out for an occasional cast, and we commenced the ascent of the “Smiling Water.” There had been heavy and continuous rains, and quite a freshet had now changed its ordinary placid exterior into one of angry turbulence. The river poured down fierce and wild, crested with foam and discolored with sand and decayed matter. But we made swift progress; starting five miles above Boiestown, we soon passed the last settlement, and entering among the mountains, amid which flows the upper stream, trusted ourselves alone to the dangers of the wilderness, to the mercy of the black-flies for our comfort, and to our skill as sportsmen for our support.

Ten months of close confinement in the city, years amid the horrors of civilization, had well prepared us to appreciate a return to man’s natural state of savage life; long contact with vice and folly had made us eager to taste once more of truth and purity, the communion with nature uncorrupted and unsullied; to feel the air blow through the waving trees instead of down narrow streets; to hear the water rippling over its native bed, and not through Croton pipes; to see the sun shine from out the blue sky, instead of being reflected amid murk and smoke from heated bricks.

The spruce and fir-trees stretched in solid mass like a green wall on either side; occasionally, a white pine loomed above them, or a birch, with its satin bark, broke the dull hue; or where the landscape was more open, the graceful elm or willow stood forth in solitary beauty; and the juniper, with its endless names of hackmatac, tamarack, larch or cypress, waved its weird arms aloft; or the light, quivering poplar, with its never-resting leaves, cast an uncertain shade.

The weather had been changeable all day, occasionally bright and pleasant, the next moment dark and lowering—now the sun shining bright and warm over the hillsides, then the rain driving in spiteful showers and veiling them in mist. The storm no sooner forced on our overcoats than the sunshine persuaded them off. Toward night, when heavier and blacker clouds obscured the sky, we determined to camp, and chose a point opposite a little tributary rivulet called Sandy Brook.

That evening and the next day were passed completing our camp equipage of tables, chairs, basins, and various little articles, and in waiting for the river to fall. During this time one of those pleasant incidents occurred that are intensely enjoyed in rough woodsman’s life; two gentlemen who had been up the river and were returning, stopped and dined with us. There was a grand discussion over flies, resulting in a mutual exchange, and a general mourning over the condition of the water, with, however, the encouragement that the freshet had destroyed the nets and let the fish up to the higher grounds.

Next day we killed our first fish of the season. I had gone above the island at the head of the pool opposite our camp, and was fishing slowly down, taking occasionally a brook trout, when there came a heavier rise, a louder plash, and a fierce run that made my reel discourse sweetly. The fish had struck me in the broken water, and it was uncertain what he was till suddenly he sprang twice his length out of water, showing the silvery sides and gleaming scales of the lovely grilse; again and again he sprang in air, making the water fly as he fell back, and doing his best to break the line or shake out the hook. Bravely he fought, taking advantage of the current to run out line, and rubbing against rocks to cut it through. In vain, foiled at each attempt, his strength rapidly diminishing, he was slowly brought nearer and nearer, till a dexterous blow of the gaff finished the struggle.

Joyful at the good omen, we hastened to our camp, and were met by my companion, Dalton, who proudly exhibited a similar trophy. There was a grand supper that night, and strong hopes that the flood would abate, hopes that were destined to a cruel disappointment when next day the stream was found to be higher than ever, and heavy clouds portended a second deluge.

Our next camp was at Still Water Brook, a name that the present condition of that streamlet strongly belied. We did not, however, remain long, our sport being confined to grilse, and not many of those, and when an English officer, who had been fishing above, called to say he had taken all the fish he wanted at a station further on, we broke up camp at once, to the great disgust of our lazy cook, who thought he had cut his “sprunghungle,” or stick that supports the kettle over the fire, for the last time. We pushed on to Burnt Hill, a famous camping-ground among all those that fish the Miramichi, and there, on the open point near the rock at whose base is the deep pool where salmon lie when the water is warm we established our sylvan home for the last time.

Burnt Hill is so named from having been burnt over, years ago, and is still a mass of dead and blackened trunks, that tower in fantastic shapes toward the sky. Next morning, having selected my choicest cariboo fly, Abraham pushed the canoe across the boiling torrent, so that I could fish near the rocky shore opposite. Having made several casts toward the bank, he swung the canoe in, and, running its nose on a rock, gave me a chance to fish the centre of the channel. I had hardly cast, when from out the curling wave rushed a mighty monster, which gleamed a moment in the sunshine and disappeared. I felt a heavy, dull strain on my rod, the fish swam deep and seemed unconscious of what had happened. Then, suddenly aroused to his danger, a magnificent salmon rushed down-stream and vaulted high out of water. Abraham glanced at me; I returned the look, but not one word was spoken. The fish returned to his former station, as though disdaining a struggle with a fragile cord and contemptible fly, and remained there some moments, heavily swimming round and round. Suddenly he became alarmed, and away he went, thirty yards at least, the line whistling through the rings and the reel hissing with the speed. He made a splendid leap and paused.

I had just time to tell Abraham to swing his boat off the rock where she was resting, when the fish started again. Down he darted; the rod bent, the line flying through the water, and after him came the pursuers. He hesitated an instant above the worst rapids, and then sped down them; once in a while I could see him amid the foam and flying spray, as he rolled himself half out of water over some heavy wave; but my attention was occupied in keeping the line clear of rocks, and not exerting too much strain upon it. Admirably did Abraham handle the canoe. He was alone; the water seethed and boiled round us broken into a mass of fierce waves, small cascades and gleaming foam. It poured with raging current over high bowlders, and swept between narrow rocks. He stood erect in the stem, his eye, taking the measure of every falls, the strength of every eddy; he swung the canoe’s head first one way then another, easing her down over the higher waves, that, curling against the stream, broke over the bow in mimic showers, and pushing strongly through the circling eddies. Not a rock did he touch, not a moment did the boat escape from perfect command, and when we were launched upon the quiet bosom of the deep pool at the foot of Burnt Hill Rapids, the fish was on the line. We each drew a long breath and again exchanged glances. It was a beautiful spot to kill a fish. The water, all white and raging above, formed a broad eddy, that washed the base of the rock on which I now stood. Although there was still a strong current in the centre, an expanse of clear water spread out at our feet, into which, after each rush, the fish could be easily led, and where his mad leaps were the only risk. It was our first fish, and I exercised the utmost care; not till he was almost dead did I force him to the surface, where Abraham, with one blow of his gaff, brought our prize to land.

What a beauty she was! The small, delicate head pronounced her a female, the destined parent of myriads cut off in her prime. The brilliancy of her flashing scales gave token that not long since had she been roaming free from danger along the shores of the seacoast, and her broad back and deep chest announced her heavy weight. Glorious in her outward appearance, our keen appetites pictured to our imaginations the rich red flesh in layers, with flakes of pearly fat between, the delicate thin sides of the stomach, the depth of solidity in her broad back. Our thoughts dwelt for a moment on the fine juicy flavor her fifteen good pounds would furnish for many a meal. But above all did we recollect with pride how well both of us had done in killing the first salmon in the Miramichi.

Mr. Dalton had been watching the contest from the bank opposite, and we returned together to the camp, where libations were duly poured forth in honor of our first capture, and preparations were made for a grand entertainment.

That evening around the fire, after supper was finished, and the genial pipe was soothing as well as invigorating our minds, and after several personal adventures had been related, Duncan commenced the following history of

THE GHOST OF DEADMAN’S LANDING.

“You saw that point of land we came by the other day, where I told you a dead man was carried out from the woods? Well, I was there when he was killed. We had been logging in the woods, and doing pretty well till we tried to draw out an uncommon heavy stick of timber. Sam Masters was with us—we used to call him Swearing Sam, from a bad habit he was given to—and Sam had taken a great idea to have that stick of timber taken out before night; but the horses were tired and it was late, and after we had dragged it part of the way all but Sam proposed to leave it till to-morrow. But Sam insisted that he was not going to give up, and when we all agreed to quit, he got mad and swore he would have that timber out alone if he had to go to hell for it, and work till the day of judgment. We tried to persuade him off, but stay he would, and we left him with the horses and returned to our camp, which we had made at the landing. After supper was finished, and it began to be late, we became anxious about Sam, and when he did not arrive, at near midnight, all hands set out to look him up.

“We had not much trouble to find the horses; they felt cold and hungry, and were neighing for their supper, but were surprised to see the log rolled off the truck, and Sam gone. But the next thing we noticed was Sam’s head just out from the edge of the log, that lay across his body. It was an awful sight; the moon was shining bright on his face, that was turned up toward the sky, but all swollen and discolored, with the eyes wide open and starting out of their sockets, and his tongue sticking out of his mouth, and the blood frozen round his nostrils and the corners of his lips. He must have been dead for hours. We had a hard time to roll the log off, and then he was mashed all out of shape, so we carried him the best way we could to the shanty, and next day wrapped him in a blanket and took him down the river. His wife was all struck of a heap when she saw him, for Sam was a good husband; if he did swear more than he ought, he never swore at her.”

“He would have been squelched sooner if he had,” put in Dalton, sotta voce.

“We felt pretty bad,” continued Duncan; “but after a few days had to go back and finish hauling the logs, for we had a lot cut. It was cold weather, and the wind howled through the pines till sometimes, at night, we almost thought we heard hallooing in the woods, but no one cared to go out and see. About two weeks after our return, I happened to leave my axe where I was chopping, and as snow had begun to fall pretty fast, and it might be snowed over, I went back after it. I had forgotten precisely where it was left, and lost a good deal of time looking about, all the while the snow coming harder and harder, so that the track was soon covered. That was not much matter, for I knew the country well; but it was growing dark, and the snow blinded me, so that I could not see plainly.

“You may believe I did not delay any; but after hurrying on as fast as possible for an hour or two, thought things looked strange; the trees grew thick and the ground rough and steep, and I could not tell where I was. I searched about for some landmark, but it was almost dark, and after trying in vain, and having a heavy overcoat with me, but no matches, I was about to crawl under the roots of a dead tree and make the best of it, when I heard somebody shouting in the distance.

“There is no mistake, but I was glad, and sung out back, and clambered over the trees and stones toward the voice; but what was my surprise, on approaching, to see our own team, and one of the boys driving. They had no intention of hauling another log, and must have been foolish to think of it in that snow; but, stranger than all, when I called, did not stop or take any notice. To tell the truth, I began to feel mighty queer, especially as the driver was shaped uncommon like Sam, and I suddenly remembered that it was that night a month ago when he hauled his last stick of timber. I followed slowly along and never said a word; the driver, whoever he was, was riding on the log, and now and then his voice shouted out what sounded in the storm mighty like a curse. Suddenly the drag struck a stump, the horses made a spring, the log started, the driver tried to jump, but slipped, and the log fell on him with crushing force. There was an awful shriek in the next blast that drove a shower of snow in my eyes, and when I looked again, horses, log and man were gone. I knew well enough where I was then, and did not take long to reach the camp, when the boys hardly knew me, I was so white and dazed like.”

“Let us see,” said Abraham, holding his chin in a thoughtful way; “it was after that you swore off liquor?”

“Yes,” said Robert. “The other boys hardly knew the liquor cask they had left in the woods next day, if I have heard right.”

“You need not laugh, boys,” said Duncan, solemnly; “there is no fun in seeing a ghost, and I had not taken more than a few drinks. Besides, you know how, next year, when Jake, and Dick, and some others were in the same camp, they heard Sam’s old chest, that we had left there, creak as though some one had sat on it, and how the shanty door was taken off the hinges and held upright in the middle of the floor. And the black dog that left no track in the snow, but used to run along the ridge pole of moonlight nights, when nobody was in the shanty; and, finally, how the roof was all taken off when Tom’s party was there, and although it was covered with snow, not a drop fell inside. No, no, spirits are no laughing matters.”

“Especially prime spirits,” suggested the cook.

“Jamaica or Holland, but I never heard of New Brunswick spirits before,” said Robert.

“Well, I can just tell you one thing,” said Duncan, aroused; “there is not one of you dare sleep in that shanty alone. Come, I will pole any of you down there to-morrow that would like to try. Who will go?”

A dead silence fell on the party, for, truth to tell, though bold enough round the fire together, the dwellers on the Miramichi are a good deal given to superstition, and not one of the party but some time or other had fancied he heard Sam’s ghost shouting to his team of a stormy night near the landing.

“Well,” said Abraham, slowly, “I never saw but one ghost. It was a moonlight night, with a little snow on the ground, and I was alone, crossing a cleared lot where the stumps stood pretty thick, when I noticed, crouched down behind one of them, a figure of some sort that looked like an old woman. It had no bonnet or hat, nothing but a cap on its head; it wore a long, tattered dress, that blew about in the wind, while I could just make out a pair of thin, white arms; but her face was black as a coal. It is no use to say I was not scared, for I think I was. There were some crazy people about at that time, who had escaped from the madhouse; but I was pretty sure I could outrun any of them, ’specially a woman, and I knew it was no use running from ghosts, so I concluded the best thing to do was to keep right along and pretend to take no notice; but, do my best, I could not keep my eyes off the old woman. I tried to whistle, but not a sound would come. I only blew a little, and not very steady at that. I tried to sing, but the first note I uttered made me jump ten feet; I thought it was somebody else’s voice, as sure as fate. I had sidled off as far as I could on account of a gully there was, and did not like to go down that for fear she should think I was afraid. The distance between us was growing less and less, and as I watched her sharper than ever, she appeared to make one or two moves, and then stop; but all of a sudden, she jumped up, threw off her clothes, and started after me. I uttered one yell, and turned; but, as luck would have it, caught my foot in a root under the snow, and rolled headlong down the steep side of the gully.

“I do not know what I said, I think I prayed; but I made considerable noise, anyway, and poked my head into a bush, and tried to burrow under the snow. This lasted some time; but hearing nothing more, and not finding myself killed, my courage returned; I took out my head, and slowly crawled up the bank. Peering carefully over the edge, I saw a stump where the old woman had been crouching, burnt at the top, with some snow on it; there was a dead bush and roots at the bottom, while a little further off lay a quantity of dead birch bark, waving about in the wind. ‘Abe,’ said I to myself, ‘you have been an awful fool to take a fired stump, a little snow, and some birch bark for a ghost. Never do so again.’ And I never have, and have never been so scared from that day to this.”

After a hearty laugh at Abraham’s fright, Robert was called upon, and responded as follows:

“I cannot tell you a ghost story, but one of as scared a man as ever was seen. It happened at this very place, too, when we were camped on this spot, and was brought to my mind by what you were reading to-day of the man hunting a grizzly bear, and leaving off because the track got too fresh. Jim Baker was with us. He had lived most of his life in the settlements, and had only just come among us, but could play the fiddle and sing a song, and must have had a good ear for music, for among the first things he did was to learn to call moose. He was uncommonly proud of the performance, and though he had never seen a moose, promised to keep the camp in meat. Well, he kept calling all the time, and sure enough one day, while we were camped here, a bull answered.

“A good hunter might call till he was grey before he could bring a moose in broad daylight right up to the camp; but it was a fool’s luck, and sure enough we soon heard him rapping through the bushes, and then jump into the brook and begin wading down. Jim had out the gun, and started off to crawl along the edge in the bushes to meet him. We could see them both; Jim crept along as fast as he could at first, and the bull came faster yet down the stream without showing a sign of fear. Soon Jim began to go slower, and finally stopped altogether, while the moose kept right on toward him, till he was within fifty yards, when he paused and took a general survey. Jim raised the gun, but when he did so the animal seemed to have his curiosity aroused, and advanced several steps toward Jim, who lowered his gun, and backed a few paces till the moose stopped again. Jim again raised the gun, and again the moose advanced and Jim retreated. This went on till the moose became satisfied, and with a snort bounded into the bushes and was gone. When Jim came back we asked him why he did not shoot, and he said we need not think he was afraid; he intended to shoot, but did not know how the gun carried ball.”

The next day my friend killed his first salmon, and strange to say, thus we continued to the end, each catching precisely the same number of fish. The days were beautifully warm, and rather given to weeping, but fresh and bracing; whereas the nights were deliciously cool, almost too cold for Summer, and demanded plenty of warm blankets. Living in the most primitive but comfortable style, feeding off a rough table, and often cooking half the dinner ourselves, but with a glorious feeling of entire independence, the heavens above, the earth beneath, and all nature round us, we had a splendid time, and many fish came to our net.

Thus the pleasant days flew by; the sport ever honest, manly, invigorating and exciting, varying in luck, at times abundant in its yield, and then utterly unproductive—the uncertainty added zest; while the evenings and hot middays were enlivened with the story, joke or latest novel. Many an idle hour, when the sun shone too resplendent for the hope of sport, did we while away, the men seated or stretched at length in various picturesque attitudes, and one of us reading aloud. But the time came when this was to end, and on the eleventh day the edict was promulgated to break up camp and return.

The tent fell and was packed, the pots and pans were huddled together, our camp stores stowed, and we reëmbarked for the descent of the river. Keeping rods ready for an occasional cast, we swept along; the water was high, our men were good boatmen, the canoes were strong, and we rushed through the foaming torrent at a gallant rate.

At Rocky Bend my friend struck five fine grilse successively, and lost all but one, much to his chagrin. He laid it to the size of his hooks, alleging they were too large; but what genius will arise to explain how it is that salmon break away without any severe strain on, or damage to, the tackle. Is it a defect in the shape of the hook? If so, should it bend to one side, or curve in or out at the point? Or is it in the force of striking, or place where the hook holds? The matter is so complex, that the most careful investigation has left me even without a theory. Some of my friends swear by one of the above plans, others by another; I have tried them all, and still the fish escape as frequently as ever.

As we approached a well-remembered spot where I had taken a fine grilse in ascending, Abraham slowly said:

“Take care as we come down to this pool, for I am like the man that once shot a bear at a cleared spot just below, and whenever afterward he came to the same place, he clambered on the highest stump, and looked around to see whether there was not another bear. Wherever we took one fish, I always expect to take another.”

I told him it was somewhat the same with me, but in that instance we were doomed to disappointment—there was no second bear.

At Sandy Pond we made our camp for the night, as my friend had never seen a fish killed with the spear, and, although admitting its unsportsmanlike character, wished to experience how it was done.

When darkness had settled down, our men kindled a flaming fire of pine knots, in an iron basket attached to a pole that projected from the bow of the canoe, and seating my friend amidships between them, pushed off. They pulled against the stream, the bright light bringing out the stones at the bottom of the water in strong relief, exposing everything within a radius of twenty feet. Behind it stood the spearsman, erect, his quick eye glancing in every direction, the firelight falling upon his reddened visage and illuminating his many graceful attitudes. With rapid motion he swung the spear from side to side as any passing object attracted his attention, ready for the death-dealing blow. With perfect facility he kept command of the boat, shoving her bow from the rocks and guiding it through the proper channel; occasionally the spear was sent glancing through the water, and in a moment a grilse brought struggling to the surface and thrown into the bottom of the canoe, where the fire rays were reflected from his scales like the liquid gleam of the diamond.

It was a picturesque sight, the waving flame, the active spearsman, the graceful canoe, and the intense darkness around; but it was cruel and barbarous, and my friend desisted before many fish had suffered.

Next day returned us safe and sound to Wilson’s hospitable log mansion, where a hearty welcome awaited us. Our extra stores were divided among the men, a farewell spoken, the team once more harnessed, and we set out to join the stage at Boiestown for Chatham, on the road to the Nipisiquit.

A strange place is Boiestown; built by an American named Boies, it is a mere collection of unpainted shanty-like houses but with Yankee shrewdness, located upon a fine stream of never-failing water, with excellent mills and water power, it might have been a thriving place had not Boies, its presiding spirit, met with reverses. The maelstrom of lumber speculation had ingulfed him, and with him the prosperity of the town. There was no native capable of filling his place, and the glory of Boiestown had departed.

The stage was due at six o’clock, but at six o’clock it did not come, nor at seven, eight, nine nor ten. We told Wilson to return for us in the morning, and retired to rest in the nearest tavern, leaving word to be called when it did come.

At midnight there was a pounding at the door announcing the arrival of the conveyance that was to carry us and our baggage, two heavy trunks, seventy miles. It was a light one horse-wagon. We went to bed again, and next morning found the stage-driver still at Boiestown, having turned out his horse to graze.

Wilson, however, soon arrived, and we started on that dreary road, following the descent of the Miramichi to its mouth. There is one, and but one, pretty view in the entire seventy miles, and that is as you ascend the first mountain beyond Boiestown. Looking back, the peaceful valley that we had just left, stretching away to our camping-ground, lay basking in the sunlight. In the distance, scarcely visible among the trees, were the few houses that compose Campbelltown; nearer was the straggling village of Boiestown, and at our feet ran the placid river, leaving broad intervals upon its banks, and meandering between smiling islands. The hay was ripening in the meadow, the oats were still luxuriant in their fresh green, the bushes lined the occasional fences or marked out the narrow swamps, while here and there were dotted the majestic white pine, the towering spruce, the noble elm or the graceful willow, and a dead tree now and then stretched its ungainly limbs toward the clouds.

Beyond, however, we fell into one dull, dreary routine; civilization was behind us, the few farms once cultivated were falling back into their savage state, the houses tumbling down, the barns in their last stages of dilapidation, everywhere windows broken out, doors off their hinges, huge cracks in roof or walls, told of general decay. The people had fled, no one knew whither; and of the few that were left, the stupidity, avarice and extortion were incredible. They impose upon and annoy travellers and fishermen till they have almost driven them away. The stages fail to run or to connect as they undertake to do. No one appears to know their times of starting or arriving. Boats advertise to leave on days when they never have left, to stop at places that are not laid down on the map, but are colloquially applied to an entire district; and omit places where they do stop. No man knows anything except his own individual business, and but little of that. The inhabitants mainly draw their support from the river, and yet are busy day and night endeavoring to ruin it; the nets from opposite shores lap over one another or reach from bank to bank, and are set week in and week out, while there is a fish running; the smallest mesh is used, small enough to capture trout or herring. The few fish that do reach the spawning beds are chased with the merciless spear without cessation till long after they are worthless as food. Yet the people think the river has improved because the laws are partially enforced at its mouth. Netters complain of the spearers, and the spearers of the netters, but neither do anything but harm. The upper stream is alive with nets, although netting should be permitted nowhere above tide water.

The only crops of the region are potatoes, oats and hay; for nine months there is rigorous winter, and for three months cold weather. The great productions are black flies, midgets and mosquitoes. The Lord help such a people, for the people will never help themselves. Let my blessing remain with the land; I shall never return for it.

The river itself is not only lovely to contemplate but would afford to reasonable beings abundant support. In May and June the Gaspereau or alewives, a species of herring, Alosa Tyrannus, make their appearance in myriads, and ascend to the lakes to spawn; in June and July the beautiful sea trout appear in shoals and urge their course to the head-waters and the cool brooks; in July and August come the splendid salmon, struggling against every impediment that the wit of man, or want of wit, can place in their way, to perpetuate their species for that foolish man’s support, and build their nests in the broad sandy pools. The lively, energetic grilse come last, fighting vigorously to reach their sylvan homes. Not one of all these races is taken fairly or properly, nor when his destruction will do most good and the least harm.

Having dined at Decantelon’s, we reached Lynch’s by dark, where we supped and passed the night, and next day, after breakfasting at Magee’s, arrived at Newcastle by nine in the morning. Seeing a boy, my friend inquired:

“Boy, when does the stage leave that runs to Newcastle?”

“A’most any time; one has gone, but there will be another going in an hour or two.”

“Where does it start from? We must inquire for ourselves, I see.”

“Oh, anywhere round the streets; up one street and down another.”

“Now that cannot be,” continued my friend sternly; “it must start from some place, and we do not wish to miss it.”

“Well, it will be along; it goes all around.”

“It has to cross that ferry, I believe,” said my friend, almost savagely.

“Yes,” said the boy.

“We will wait there where it cannot miss us.”