148 THE BEAVER KIVER WATERS. 



sucli as the reader lias only dreamed of; but for my own 

 comfort and history's sake, I prefer to utter unpalatable 

 truths rather than to indulge in the fictions of fancy. It 

 was a solemn fact that we had made a mistake. We had 

 studied the almanac l)utnot the signs of the peculiar season. 

 However, there was no sulky Achilles among us, and in 

 the end we took the half loaf with j^hilosophical cheerful- 

 ness. 



After a forenoon of suceessful tishing, my guide "John" 

 took me up the inlet. It is one of those dead, stagnant 

 streams which one finds now and then slowly winding 

 through a marsh. The alders and weeds were brown and 

 dry, and .everything was as cheerless and lonely as can be 

 imagined. As we silently and slowly- crept up the wind- 

 ing stream, watchful to detect the leap of the trout, the 

 stillness was almost oppressive. There was no bird oi- ani- 

 mal life to l)reak the spell of desolation, except the singu- 

 lar note of the bittern bearing the descriptive, popular name 

 of "the pile-driver." The half dull, half-resonant " ca- 

 thug! ca-thug!" of its voice was occasionally heard, and 

 once the bird, startled by our unsuspected approach, sprang 

 suddenly into the air, uttered a croaking "squawk" and 

 flew heavily away. We lingered in this region of death 

 and silence as long as I could endure it, and then hastened 

 back to the sparkling waters of the lake, where our eyes 

 could at least rest themselves on the green-clad islands and 

 mountains, and our ears welcomed again the gurgle and 

 nuu-mur of the waters around the prow of our light and 

 swift-moving boat. 



