A DUAL FISH— CAUGHT ON TWO RODS. 



BY KIT CLARKE. 



Just a fishing story — that's all, but 

 you can bet it's a good one. More- 

 over, this is it's debut, it's first appear- 

 ance in public, and possesses the rare 

 merit of being true from foundation to 

 fresco. It also illustrates the curious 

 fact that two men who know how to 

 catch a trout — one of man's most meri- 

 torious and compensating accomplish" 

 ments — have likewise acquired that 

 other largely cultivated art — tergiversa- 

 tion, more familiarly known among the 

 multitude as lying. 



It all happened like this: On a 

 charming day in June, away up in the 

 deepest and darkest of Canada's vast 

 forests, and from a little lake as fair as 

 any ever seen, a huge trout was dex- 

 terously lifted from liberty into a balky 

 birch canoe. 



No matter who did the "lifting, "it 

 was a brilliant deed indeed, and by the 

 test made in the presence of a dozen 

 watchful eyes, the fish weighed over 

 six honest pounds. 



We were half a score of enthusiastic 

 anglers, enjoying life to its utmost, in 

 a rare log camp on the edge of Labra- 

 dor, and every creature comfort, even 

 to an example of the illustrious, soul- 

 moving and ever commendable vintage 

 of 1840, was at ourcommand, not over- 

 looking an attractive array of patriotic, 

 that is to say red, white and blue 

 " chips." 



During the lovely days we struggled 

 in the deep green waters with sundry 

 and various fat and frisky fish, and 

 " when night dropped her sable mantle 

 o'er the earth," we continued the frisky 

 and oftimes fierce struggle over a table 

 of equally green cloth. 



On this memorable night the monster 

 trout filled our minds, and after much 

 argument it was decided to skin the 

 fish, and thus preserve it to the future 

 great glory of its captor in particular, 

 and the Amabelish club of anglers in 

 general. 



The decision was unanimous that I 

 should perform the surgical operation 

 of severing the epidermis from the 

 pulp, it being asserted in various lan- 

 guages that my acquirements as a fish 

 skinner were simply multum in parvo, 

 e pluribus unum, sic transit gloria 

 inundi, sui generis, or some such thing. 



I said it was true, and skinned the 

 fish. So I went at it "with both feet," 

 to use the familiar phrase of our ad- 

 vanced civilization, and exerted all my 

 conceded skill to insure a satisfactory 

 result, no easy matter, when a dozen 

 savages are busily illustrating a war 

 dance in the immediate vicinity. I had 

 congratulated myself on the success of 

 the momentuous undertaking, when 

 one of the boys — I mean savages — in- 

 advertently struck the operating table, 

 causing the scalpel in my hand to slip 

 and thereby cutting a gash in the back 

 of the fish, and nearly severing the 

 dorsal fin. 



There are moments in a man's exist- 

 ence when life is a miserable, a dis- 

 gusting, double-distilled mockery, and 

 this was one of them. With some free- 

 dom I proceeded to distribute an assort- 

 ment of unparliamentary language — 

 but high atmospheres purify themselves 

 rapidly, and when the sky became 

 clear we examined the "busted" skin. 

 Careful deliberation convinced me that 

 the only way out of the dilemma was to 



