Part 8

As the day was now becoming bright and hot, I thought it time to look after my boys, who were out of sight around a point. I soon came up with them and found “Squills” asleep in the bottom of the boat while “Bluffy” sat smoking, with his rod lying idly across the gunnel with the line in the water. “What luck, boys?” I shouted. “Squills” awoke and replied, “What luck yourself, Governor? Not one blessed fish in this region.” I settled on my sculls, ready for a quick start, and said, “Why, Squills, you don’t know _how_ to fish. Just compound a few of your best prescriptions and throw them overboard. They have generally proved fatal to your patients, and will murder the fish sure.”

“Squills” made a wicked dab at my head with his long-handled net, but a stroke put me in safety, and I added, “And you, friend ‘Bluffy,’ just rehash that famous trespass-case speech of yours, which gave the judge fits and nearly killed the jury, and if you don’t have lots of dead fish, I’m a Dutchman.” The poor boys, however, were past joking; and I rowed back and examined their ground. They had actually been fishing all the morning in water nine feet deep; over a bottom smooth as a billiard table, without a weed, rock or stone to hide them from the fish; all of which, within a hundred yards, could plainly see them and their boat. So I said, “Come boys, we’ll go to camp and have an early trout dinner, and in the evening you shall catch fish to your heart’s content.” Then up, after this manner, spoke the dolorous “Squills”.

“That is all right, Governor, but it strikes me that in order fully to enjoy a trout-dinner, it is, above all things, necessary first to have the trout.”

“True, most sapient medicus, and here they are,” I rejoined, at the same time lifting the lid of my creel. “Glory to Galen!”

“Thunder and turf!”

“Ghost of Walton! where did you get those, Governor?” both exclaimed in a breath. “Boys,” said I, “you are hungry, tired, and cross; possess your souls in patience; come to camp; take some lime-juice and water, with a little of something in it; eat, drink, and recover your strength, and you shall have the best afternoon’s sport you ever saw.” These words of wisdom cheered the fellows up wonderfully, and we all put off for camp.

That redolent and shiny youth, Jim, soon cleaned two of the dead fish, together about five pounds, cooked them in a style of his own, and we sat down at the unfashionable hour of eleven to our first camp dinner. I will, for once, give the _menu_, merely to show what awful _hardships_ we had to encounter!

Brook trout, fried in red-hot lard, garnished with bread crumbs; broiled mutton chops; baked potatoes; cold tongue; pickles; sauces and jellies: aftercourse—pancakes with maple syrup; wind up—Stilton cheese. Didn’t we just suffer for our country? After the inevitable and welcome pipe (not cigars), and some choice and (I am happy to say) _chaste_ anecdotes by “Bluffy,” we laid down for a two hours’ siesta. Oh, the glory, the happiness of out-door life, away from posts, telegraphs, or newspapers! Oh, the delight of feeling that every fresh breath of pure ozone-laden air, adds to health and wholesome animal spirits, and is rapidly re-invigorating your system, and fitting you to more effectually take part in renewed and honest work!

At four o’clock the sun was again obscured by kindly clouds and we all went out to the reef; the boys, as before, in one boat, and I in the other. And then occurred sport such as is seldom seen in genuine troutfishing. My friends stuck to their minnow and grasshopper bait, while I retained the fly. I induced them to anchor quite close to the edge of the reef, so that they might, if necessary, drop their lines perpendicularly down its face. They had not fished five minutes when “Bluffy” gave a whoop, which might have awakened a petit-juror or scared a witness out of his boots. I glanced that way, and found the man of law standing up in the boat with curved and straining rod and a glow of intense satisfaction pervading his jolly countenance. “I’ve got him, Governor! He’s a whopper; an old he fellow! None of your three pounders,” he yelled in great excitement. Sure enough, he _had_ him, and after ten minutes of skilful play, landed a trout of over four pounds.

This beat me all hollow! Indeed the largest _S. fontinalis_ I took on this trip weighed three pounds, one ounce, being two ounces lighter than the heaviest I have ever yet caught.

“Squills” now got his hand in and brought out a dashing fish of three and a-half pounds, in a manner so pretty and artistic as to elicit a warm eulogium from the “Governor,” who, of course, had not meantime been idle himself. In fact, I had taken a double and single while the boys got their two; but these outweighed my three. All through our excursion the _largest_ fish were invariably taken by bait, but not so many of them as by the fly. However, the fly was so much less trouble and so much prettier, and cleaner to handle, I did not care to change, seeing at once that we should catch more fish than we wanted anyway.

It was a great treat to me to watch the enjoyment the boys had in their sport. Neither of them had been out before for years, and no student at the beginning of a long vacation could have manifested such unbounded delight at his freedom, as did they with their fishing and its accompanying pleasures. It is a fact worthy of note that while I, using the fly, took only speckled trout (_S. fontinalis_), my friends, with bait, secured several of other and larger kinds.

Well, amid laughter, joke and repartee, the afternoon wore away, and evening shades came all too quickly.

Our sport had been almost unique in its exhilarating success and joyousness. When the sun sank below the waters we had taken in all seventy-six fine trout, none under one pound. Of this number my fly was responsible for thirty-two, “Squills” had taken twenty-one, and “Bluffy” twenty-three. A lovelier lot of fish was never seen; and with the exception of eight dead ones, we transferred them all safely to the corral, built in the edge of the lake near our tent, with large stones. Here, about eighty per cent, of all the fish taken on this trip remained alive during the whole time of our stay. Whenever one showed signs of failing we dipped him out for present use. This corral, hacked up by our supply of ice, gave us full assurances that our good luck would not be followed by reckless waste.

But I had almost forgotten the chief incident of this memorable day. As we approached the camp we saw “Jim” on the shore dancing a double “Virginny break-down” and grinning all over from head to foot; his shining ebony face and gleaming teeth fairly illuminating the coming darkness. On seeing us he yelled out, “I got him, gentlemen; I beats you all; takes this nigger to catch fish!”

The imp had actually made for himself a raft of drift-wood, paddled it out to deep water, and taken with bait a great salmon trout of twenty pounds! and it was now swimming about in the corral like a very leviathan among my morning’s catch. This tickled us all so immensely that we then and there bestowed upon “Jim” an extra “quarter” each. This boy was indeed a treasure; a first-class cook and care-taker; willing, faithful, and honest; while his store of songs, exhibits of dancing, and never-failing fun and good-humor, would have sufficed to keep cheerful any camp in the world. Poor fellow! he was drowned two years later in Lake Michigan, while bathing.

If I did not fear to spin out this already dull narrative to an inordinate length, I should like to give a detailed account of each of the twelve days we fished and shot in this vicinity.

_Twelve_ days only, mind you, for not a line was wet on Sunday.

Our one rifle proved a useful adjunct, but we found no use for the shot-guns, the season being too early and the weather too fine for ducks. The delicately sighted Winchester, however, procured us several fine specimens of the loon or great northern diver, and one or two large blue cranes, all of which, I presume, now adorn “Squills’” sanctum in British Columbia.

Almost every day we had choice sport, and we limited our catch only by the facilities we possessed for saving and carrying away the fish.

One particular day we devoted to salmon and red trout, which we fished for away off in very deep water, all of us using either spoons or live herring bait, in trolling. We had plenty of wholesome exercise in rowing, and very fair luck as regards fish; taking in all, seven salmon trout and five red trout.

The honors of this day fell to “Squills,” who captured with his spoon a salmon trout of nineteen pounds, while I got a red trout of ten pounds. This last named fish is as pink in the flesh and as fine flavored as _Salmo salar_. It is said by local fishermen to be in fact the same fish, and they suppose that in ages long past sea salmon had some means of reaching this lake, and when the waters subsided some were left, and that from them the red trout is descended. As I have myself no scientific knowledge whatever I cannot offer an opinion upon this point. I can only say that if a skilled fisherman, or even a scientist, were to receive one of these fish from, say Quebec, he could hardly distinguish it from the veritable _Salmo salar_, though it bears even a more exact resemblance to the salmon of Frazer Fiver, British Columbia.

I am told that this red trout will rise to the fly, but I cannot vouch for the fact, as all we took were captured with bait or spoon.

A rather curious, though frequently occurring, thing happened one evening as we were all fishing, with our boats not more than fifty feet apart. I had hooked, and was playing a medium sized speckled trout, when it was seized and gorged by a sixteen-pound salmon trout. I realized the situation instantly and gave line freely, so as to allow the poacher lots of time to swallow his stolen prey. The rifle was in the other boat, and I asked the boys to come alongside, as we should probably have to use cold lead, the fish being too large for our landing nets. By the time they were in position, about sixty feet of my line had gone slowly out, and I judged that the large fish had got the small one fairly in his stomach. I then began to reel in very gently, and was surprised to find that the big trout followed my lead with great docility until I had brought him quite near the surface. Then he became alarmed and dashed off—a proceeding to which I made no resistance, as I feared pulling the bait from his throat. Being apparently satisfied that all was right, my unknown friend soon became quiescent, and I could only feel a slight tremor of the line as he settled his supper satisfactorily in his maw. Again I coaxed him slowly and cautiously towards the boat in which stood “Bluffy” with poised rifle. This time I ventured to make him show himself within twenty feet of the muzzle of the gun, when “Bluffy” very neatly put a bullet through his head, and he turned belly up and was got on board. “Well done, “Bluffy,”” said “Squills;” “your _practice_ could not have done greater _execution_ if you had been making out a bill of costs for a client.”

“Well, no,” says ‘Bluffy;’ “but I think perhaps one of _your curative pills_ would have killed the fish more unutterably dead.”

“Peace, boys, peace,” said the “Governor”; “this is a solemn occasion; we have used unlawful and unsportsmanlike means to take a game fish; but as it could not be helped we will condone the offence by giving the fish away to the first deserving object we meet.”

“And that will be ‘Jim,’ quietly observed ‘Squills.’”

But dear me! what is the use of trying to tell all the fun and glorious sport we had? The pen of a “Frank Forester” or a Hallock might do justice to the subject, mine cannot. Suffice it to say that, as the days went on, each one made me feel younger and younger, until I found it hard to convince myself that I was over twenty-five. As to my comrades, we had not been out a week before they were boys of sixteen!

Last days will come, however, and all too quickly, let us bear up never so bravely. The fifteenth morning saw us packing up and preparing to return once more to civilized life and “the busy haunts of men.”

I am afraid to say how many trout we had at the finish, but I know that we packed in ice more than three hundred pounds weight to take home with us; and gave away, almost alive from the corral, nearly as many more to the captain of the steamer, thereby calling down upon our heads the earnest blessings of passengers and crew.

I find, on looking over this MS. that I have forgotten to say that we discovered several places along the channel edge of the island where most excellent trout-fishing could be had from the shore; and that, by the advice of local fishermen, my friends tried the “hearts” of killed trout as bait, and found such very effective. This “heart” is a piece of flesh which lies inside the pointed part of the fish’s belly which runs between the gill covers. It looks much like a genuine heart, and _pulsates_ for several seconds after being removed from the fish. I suppose that it is in fact a real heart. Never once did this bait fail to attract a bite; but, of course, not many hearts could be obtained, as we extracted the delicate morsel only from such fish as were required for immediate consumption.

Me finally bade farewell to our two weeks’ elysium, with sorrowful feelings, but before the lapse of twenty-four hours, kind and loving thoughts of wives, little ones, and home re-asserted themselves, and we landed at Collingwood in jubilant spirits and vigorous health, fully prepared to resume our several avocations, and fight again the battles of life with renewed courage and hope.

P.S.—We were absent from Barrie twenty-five days in all, and the whole trip cost us only one hundred and thirty-five dollars, or forty-five dollars each. Our ice was kept almost intact by being wrapped in blankets and covered with spruce boughs. Mr. Boon, before referred to, has built and is this winter (1883) filling a large ice-house on the small island for his own use and that of any visitors who may fish in the neighborhood next summer. Mr. Boon took five hundred half barrels of choice fish on these grounds last season; with nets, of course.

THE ANGLER’S GREETING.

By W. David Tomlin.

Whither away, friend! Your black slender rod-box and the creel denote you are on fishing intent, but where are you bound?

A momentary glance, a cordial good evening; the question then came—To whom am I indebted for this greeting? An exchange of cards resulted in a long and cordial grasp of hands; glad to meet you! Is it possible? The magic pasteboard revealed two names not unknown to each other through the columns of their favorite angling journal, and this visitor had come to the little country station in quest of some of the fishing often spoken of in the said paper.

The fates had led the correspondent to the railway station to bid good-bye to a friend when the angler unlimbered himself therefrom; and was looking around as strangers do.

“Can you recommend a quiet inn near this point where I can find decent treatment? I am not inclined to be fussy.”

A few minutes’ walk and I introduced him to mine host, who was a genuine piscator, and nothing pleased him better than to have an angler under his roof: he took possession of him and considered nothing too much trouble, so long as he gave his guests good fishing, clean beds, a square meal, and satisfaction.

While supper was being prepared, we pleasantly chatted over the prospect of sport, and the angler’s aim and ambition. He wanted a day or two of trouting, and some roach fishing with a fly, as he had read some letters giving an experience in fishing for these dainty fish, and intended trying them. The inspection of a well-filled fly-book showed how carefully he had selected his stock.

The early supper over, we strolled up the hillsides overlooking this lovely vale. On the grassy downs we seated ourselves, and I pointed out to him the various fishing points; yonder is a splendid reach where the trout are always found; see that sheeny rivulet coming down through that clump of trees! that is the best trout stream in this section of country.

Note the different water-courses. The canal runs through the middle of the valley; see here, clear away to the west, a little brook comes tumbling in; see just below that point, a silvery-looking stream on the farther side of the canal—that is a fine trout stream; follow its course until it loses itself in that big clump of willows: a saw-mill is hidden in those willows, and the stream, after supplying the mill with power, drops into a culvert under the bed of the canal; there it is again in that piece of open moorland; there it is coming out from that long clump of willows, and finally joining the stream mentioned before as the best trout stream in this region; thus the two streams, the Gade and the little Bourne, are swallowed up in the canal; and have always been splendid waters for roach fishing.

The hills hide the canal and streams in their winding course, or I would point out to you the best fishing grounds for miles along this Hertfordshire valley; but I presume there lies under your observation enough fishing ground for a day or two.

The sun is tending downward like a huge ball of fire, the vale is in a dreamy shade; how glistening the appearance of the water-courses, like a big silvery thread winding in and out along the vale! the evening air is full of music; the bee is humming around you; what a flood of music comes from the throat of that woodland thrush in yonder thorn hedge! the strain is taken up, and the very woods echo again with the song of the black-bird. As he ceases his roundelay, the soft clear note of another bird strikes on the ear; for the moment’ nature seems hushed; almost breathless you wait; the notes come rich and clear, as silvery as a lute, a flood of melody; the sound dies away and instantly the woods ring again; all the sweet-throated songsters seem as if applauding the song of the nightingale; we sit and drink in these sounds, until one by one the songs drop into silence, leaving the nightingale to pour out its tuneful music until far into the night. At this moment there comes in the air the quivering boom of a bell ringing out the hour of nine from the steeple of the church yonder, faintly limned on the evening shadows. Ah! listen again! there comes the evening chime. How the quivering notes pulsate up here on these-hilltops! how silvery the tones; as the chords of the vesper hymn rings out sweet and clear, our hearts beat in rhythm to the strain! Lovely vale! Israel’s grandest seer, who with eye undimmed and natural force unabated, even from Pisgah’s lofty heights gazed on no lovelier scene than this we have surveyed. We descend into the shadows; promising to meet my angling friend some time during the following day, I wend my way homeward and to rest.

The evening shadows were again falling ere I could join our angler, but the flies were on the waters and roach were fairly jumping, the surface of the stream was alive with fish, both roach and dace breaking water around us. My friend was no novice; I found him whipping the stream from bank to bank, and his creel testified to his success. He was using a tail fly and dropper, a red hackle for the former, and an imitation of the common blue house-fly for the dropper. These fish are fastidious in their tastes; they do not rise at flies like a trout, but come to the surface of the water and just break for the fly and at once turn tail up. He who fishes for them must have a quick eye and steady hand; then he can kill readily enough. They are a toothsome fish, but a trifle bony. Eye and hand must work together, and when fish are feeding they will readily take the fly. They are tender in the mouth and require care in handling. They afford good sport in streams where they are abundant, and are often killed weighing from one and a-half to two pounds.

My angling friend had come well prepared with letters introducing him to the owners of the fine trout streams, and readily obtained permission to fish these preserved waters. It was rare sport to watch him daintily lay out his line across the stream, his stretcher a June fly, or at times a floating May-fly skittered across the surface until close to the farther hank. Here lay a big _Salmo fario_. We had been watching him lazily coming to the surface to suck in a fly or bug that had tumbled from the trees overhead. A big cockchafer came spinning and buzzing down stream. All laziness gone in an instant, up came the _Salmo_ showing his huge sides. A fierce lunge and a heavy splash and the chafer was gone into the cavern of the open mouth. The fly-book was out in an instant. A dark brown fly somewhat resembling the ‘chafer replaced the stretcher. A careful cast a little up stream, a lunge and a miss from the trout. Another cast close in to the bank, a slight jerk and the fly assumed the appearance of the buzzing chafer; the same sharp dash, the hand was as quick as the trout this time, the hook was driven home and the fun began. Such a dashing, splurging, rushing I had never seen. He was determined to use every art known to trout-lore before he surrendered. The rod bent and sprung, the line fairly swished as he tore up stream; above him lay the limb of a tree, scraggy and ragged; toward this he plunged, but the line tightened on him; he tugged and jerked, but gained not an inch; he came to the surface and thrashed the water with his broad tail. Fatal error! as he did so the line came in as fast as fingers could fly round, the landing net was slipped under him, a quick upward movement and Master _Salmo_ was flung high and dry. He was too big for the net and so was ignominiously flung ashore.