116 
of the rapids at the head of the pool, we got 
ready for business. It came, and at once. My 
first cast raised two trout. I had two flies on 
my leader, my companion had three and had 
three fish to his rod; the other boat was in 
equal high feather. As our guides had the 
boats to manage, we had to boat our own fish 
and I landed my two all right and helped my 
friend with his three, and the smaliest of the 
lot weighed one and a half pounds, and the 
largest, two pounds scant. Then another cast 
all around and again our flies were ‘‘loaded,”’ 
as the waters boiled all around us. ‘The fish 
were rising freely, as nearly every cast 
brought a rise and I then took off one fly, fish- 
ing with a single and boating my own fish. 
None were over two pounds and none less than 
one and a half. 
The picture of four men in a pouring rain 
fishing and chewing gum furiously, utterly 
oblivious of the gum and the rain, and in- 
tensely intent on the fish, will linger long in 
my memory. As we were not there to see 
how many fish we could take, we realized that 
we had reached the limit, and feeling a little 
guilty at the size of our string, estimated at 
forty, which was not far out of the way, as we 
had spent about an hour and the trout were 
all born fighters. We put ashore, built a fire, 
and had a lunch, washed down with hot tea, 
then dropped down the stream to our little 
steamer. 
The ride back to camp in the cold rain, though 
partly sheltered by a canvas awning, was 
chilly, but we felt thatit was‘‘real pirate,” as one 
remarked, and it was enjoyment ‘‘after its 
kind,’’ and so ended the day. A short stroll 
with the rod and a cast here and there, as the 
mood moved us, was sure of bountiful returns 
anywhere about camp. ‘The fishing, too, was 
good, but no fish were wasted, as there were 
thirty or more to feed. And as we fished with 
the fly, we only hooked our fish through the 
bony cartilege of the lip, and we released 
more fish than we kept. 
And so the days sped away. One day two 
of us, each with one guide, with our ‘‘ birches,” 
took our way down the B—— stream, and for 
the first half mile the birches danced along the 
-rapids, our native guide in the stern making 
easy sweeps of the paddle, keeping in the 
current and gracefully dodging the rocks. We 
were soon afloat on the pool at the foot of the 
swift water, but we lingered here only a few 
minutes tomake a few casts, and then dropped 
The American Angler 
farther down stream. We were starting out 
for a whole day, had plenty of time to linger 
by the way, or we could take a straight away 
course for miles and miles through the pri- 
meval wilderness, with no limit till we reached 
the great lake. Our canoes separated as we 
sped along down the stream, now through the 
quick water and again along the quiet reaches. 
Accustomed for years to boating and canoeing, 
there is to mea wonderful charm in plying the 
paddle; no toiling at the oar and looking back- 
ward over the course you have passed, but a 
long look ahead. ‘Then the fresh and odorous 
air of the woods, the newness and freshness of 
everything about you. One must see it to ap- 
preciate it. Thestream broadened out and we 
soon reached the lake where the wind was 
fresh, but our birch rode like a duck. We 
paddled across the lake a mile or so, and then 
entered Nameless creek, where 1 raised one 
solitary half pound trout. We here joined the 
other canoe again and landed for dinner. 
Later, finding the creek choked with fallen 
trees, we turned our course homeward. 
Just before leaving the lake, we anchored 
to fish for doré or wall-eyed pike. They grow to 
weigh twenty-five pounds in this lake, but you 
can’t prove that by me. We caught plenty, 
but no large ones. ‘‘ The day was far spent 
and night coming on” as we finally reached 
camp, tired, hungry, but happy, and with 
plenty of fish. 
The guides of this northern country are 
all honest and trusty, and fully earn their 
pay; I have always found them faithful and 
willing. 
We saw very little of bird life, but remember 
one. I thought I heard a vireo with a weird 
and plaintive call. The painted trillium was 
about the only wild flower I remember at this 
time. 
We made other trips, of course, and they 
were fully as rich as those mentioned, but the 
vacation came to an end, and the man, like 
the one in the old song, ‘‘shouldered his gun 
and unbent his brows, and went home to his 
bees and cows.” FRANK S, Fay. 

Fishing at Aransas Pass, Texas. 
By this mail I send you two photographs of 
one day’s catch of tarpon, made at Aransas 
Pass last summer; and, by the way, you 
asked me some time ago about this fish losing 
his silvery appearance. From what I can 
learn, he only loses it in fresh or brackish 
