44 The American Angler 
needle covered spot beneath great trees, 
with vistas of lake and mountains on 
every side, and the finest fishing close at 
mand. Here as. at ‘every! lake, the 
guides had built tables and seats of split 
cedar, and here, as always, they spread 
great sheets of white birch-bark for 
table cloth, and smaller pieces of the 
same for plates. Here we sat waiting 
for dinner, with great trout leaping at 
our very feet, we eager for the potatoes 
to boil, and to be at ’em once more. 
To Lake No. 4, to Lake Smith, Lake 
Joe, Lost lake, Sand lake and endless 
lakes we went, and lastly a two days’ 
trip, where we spent the night at a little 
log cabin by beautiful Lake Munroe, 
home of the five pounders. With food 
enough for a regiment, and tackle for 
whales, our two canoes set out. First a 
mile paddle, then pick up the canoes 
and carry a mile to Rock lake, then 
carry to Cross lake, then carry a mile 
and a half to Munroe, and at midday 
the canoes are dropped on the famous 
sheet of water owned by the thirty 
Americans styling themselves the Mas- 
tigouche Fishing Club. By courtesy 
we had the keys to their cabin, the only 
dwelling for very many miles, tenantless, 
save as the wandering fisherman comes 
in the brief days of the northern sum- 
Here we found ample blankets, 
wire spring beds, balsam-filled mattress- 
es, Stove, abundant dishes and silver, 
with the club name deeply cut thereon, 
ice, tools, boats, tables, chairs, nets— 
everything for the fisherman. On the 
walls of the cabin were outlines of mon- 
ster trout caught by our predecessors. 
We did not disfigure the building in 
that way. We took half-pounders, that 
was all. Wecooked and ate three enor- 
mous meals in the club-house, we built 
a roaring fire, and with guides played 
cards till well into the night, and 
MET: 
paddled next day across the lake by 
along way home. We shall never for- 
get Lake Munroe. Dark islands of 
spruce sat like gems on its shining sur- 
face, wooded mountains sprang from its 
shores, maples tinged with red and ash, 
wearing a deep hue of coming fall, 
flecked the mountains sides, as we took 
a last look at this beauty spot of the Lau- 
rentian mountains, and regretfully en- 
tered the forests on the homeward trail. 
I must dwell briefly on the guides, 
faithful men, who patiently paddle you 
wherever the leaping trout allure, and 
seem part of the woods, whose lessons 
they have better learned than the fisher- 
man has the complexer needs of the 
shop and office; on the birch canoe, frail, 
swift, cranky, which you would fain take 
back to civilization, only to find it as 
much out of place as the spruce of the 
forests on a city lawn; on the pathless 
woods, the crying loon, the lonely lakes, 
which have become part of your life, 
and whose memory lives long amid the 
hum of cities, to which carry the mur- 
mur of the water falls and the splash of 
the leaping trout. 
And now briefer yet of the last days; 
of Little William once more, with its 
glorious fishing and more glorious 
camping-spot; of the eighty half-pound 
trout in an hour, at Lake No. 4; of the 
climb down the river with the ladies to 
see the four great falls, where the river 
drops fifteen hundred feet in two miles; 
of the partridges seen on a Sunday and 
no gun; of the giant pines counting the 
centuries ; of the start home with the 
ladies, riding a half mile out for a last 
parting with my bachelor companion; of 
the delights of Montreal, and the ride 
home, beguiled by equally alluring com- 
pany, the American ladies returning 
from theirsummer outings at Quebec 
and Montreal. 
