THE MAID of the MOUNTAIN 



had deserted me for the Maid, and that I wanted 

 his services for a week as canoe-man. 



" So the black felley has gone to the Maid," said 

 McTavish. "Man, man, but she plays him like 

 she does a trout she's well hooked. But no 

 matter, I '11 send him to the right about as soon 

 as the land is all cleared, so let the Injin work 

 away." McTavish grinned at the picture he had 



evoked. 



So did I, but I saw two trout on her cast, and I 

 wondered which one she would land. McTav- 

 ish's preparations to accompany me were simple. 

 He merely closed the cabin door, picked up a 

 lono- lithe spruce pole shod with iron at one end, 

 and announced that he was ready. He proved so 

 skilful in poling a canoe that I decided to return 

 up river to the pool of the big rock. There again 

 I set my tent, and for several days I fished for the 

 great trout that lurk its depths. Of all the rivers 

 that take their rise in the table-land that forms the 

 divide between Lake St. John and the River St. 

 Lawrence in the province of Quebec, there is no 

 one that is so justly celebrated for its trout as the 

 Jacques Cartier. Its island-studded waters, the 

 irregular-shaped mountains that guard it, clad 

 to their summits with the spruce and balsam, its 

 rough rapids that subside into long reaches of placid 



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