The Trout 



a straight, unbroken line across the river, 

 over a solid ledge of rocks, with a curve as 

 true, uniform, and unbroken as a mill dam. 

 The waters fell into a circular basin of con- 

 siderable extent, and then, divided by a 

 small island in the middle of the lower fall, 

 plunged down again to the lower level. On 

 this little isle were twin fir trees of remark- 

 able beauty and symmetry, standing like 

 silent sentinels in the silent Canadian forest 

 — for no sound was ever heard except the 

 rushing of the tumultuous waters beneath. 

 The absence of birds was remarkable, only Batiscan Fails 

 an occasional song sparrow being heard. 



Our last camp was at the summit of the 

 fall, a few feet from its edge. Above the 

 fall were nothing but brook trout; not a 

 chub to be seen ; great lusty trout from one- 

 half to three pounds — none less, none more. 

 And they were too plentiful for real sport. 

 A dozen would rise to the single fly at once, 

 knocking it about sometimes like a tennis 

 ball. We fished only a few minutes in the 

 early morning and toward sundown, as we 

 took only enough to supply the camp. 

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