74 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



Creators hand. No sounds have been heard to carry 

 us back in thought to the world of life and labor, save 

 the occasional booming of the fog cannon at a govern- 

 ment station on the south side of the St. Lawrence. 

 How strangely did the warning voice of this gun, tel- 

 ling us of danger to the mariner, break upon the 

 silence of the hour as we sat watching the fairy forms 

 and fantastic shapes in our first evening's camp-fire ! 



Pleasant as it is to the writer to live over again the 

 days of which he has written — to dwell upon the 

 scenes in which he was an actor, so vividly presented 

 to his mind's eye as he writes of them — pity for the 

 too-long suffering reader has prompted him to close 

 the lids of his journal and restore it to its place in the 

 book-case. 



It only remains to write somewhat of our success in 

 fishing. The season was a very dry one, our river very 

 low, and no rain sufficient to affect it fell during our 

 stay, consequently the trout did not come up in as large 

 numbers as usual, and the clearness of the water ren- 

 dered successful fly-fishing more difficult. We caught 

 on this occasion but two hundred and forty-three trout, 

 of the aggregate weight of three hundred and four 

 pounds. All these fish were taken with a fly, save one : 

 thereby hangs a tale heretofore untold. At Tadousac, 

 on our way out, I saw a gentleman, to whom I had 

 been introduced, making something in the construction 

 of which he used three snelled hooks and about three 

 inches in length of thin white rubber tubing. I asked 



