108 AMERICAN GAME FISHES. 



in meekly, with an occasional remonstrance, and you think 

 it time for the net. 



The leader shows above the water and the rod curves into a 

 semicircle, but no strain you can put on raises the fish farther, 

 which circles slowly around. A sudden dash under your feet 

 drags the rod-tip under water, but is foiled by a quick turn 

 of the canoe. Then a telegraphic circuit seems to have been 

 established through your tired arms to your spine. The fish 

 is standing on his head, worrying the fly like a bull-dog, and 

 slapping at the leader with his tail. All at once the rod springs 

 back and you are heavily splashed by a leap almost into your 

 face. This occurs half a dozen times. He may jump into 

 the canoe, perhaps over it; I have seen a Wananishe caught 

 in the air in the landing-net after it had shaken the fly out of 

 its mouth. He is far more likely, however, to smash rod 

 and tackle, unless you lower the tip smartly. 



Some more runs may follow, or a sulking fit. The more he 

 is kept moving the sooner he will tire. It is well to keep 

 him in hand with as heavy a strain as can be risked, for he 

 fights to the last, and there is no knowing what he may do. 

 Even when he comes to the surface and shows his white side, 

 the sight of the landing-net nerves him to what the pugilists 

 call a "game finish." Three-quarters of an hour have gone, 

 when Narcisse slips the net under him with a' quick but sure 

 scoop, and kills him with a blow from the paddle. "C'est 

 seriensement grosse" he says, as he holds up a twenty-five- 

 inch fish. Really the balance does seem wrong when it 

 marks only five pounds. 



After a couple of hours cruising about the eddy with more 

 or less luck, we portage over the point, making our way with 

 some difficulty through the tangle of rocks and trees, though 

 the men, canoe on head and both hands full, skip along easily 

 enough. There we find a little family party of Wananishe 

 close under the bank, in a hole beneath some alder roots, which 

 would exactly suit a Trout's idea of home. Farther up we get 



