BASS-FISHING IN SUNGAHNEETUK 111 



grass of last year's growth. I note, too, the fresh- 

 water flotsam here stranded, of chips, cohs, slabs, 

 bits of board, and rails from upstream mills and 

 farms, with a child's rude toy boat, dismantled and 

 unhelmed in its wild voyage, grounded on its ant- 

 hill Ararat, while some little chap among the hills 

 is yet searching the pebbly shores and, with as 

 fond, vain hopes as ours, shading his eyes to descry 

 his small ship sailing back from Spain. Here is a 

 paddle gone adrift from its boat, and the cover of 

 a minnow-can, with rusting hasp and hinges still 

 clinging to it — signs of boatmen and fishermen 

 in upper waters. 



Ruisseau has grown listless too, and for the last 

 five minutes has given me no advice nor made any 

 disparaging comments on my rod and line, which 

 he thinks too slender. When he goes fishing he has 

 a spar of white cedar for a rod and corresponding 

 cordage for a line. " Dat 's de way I 'ms feesh in 

 Canady." He has changed the water in the bait- 

 kettle, and is taking his ease on the grass, with his 

 pipe in full blast, the fumes pervading a cubic 

 acre of May-day air. Suddenly a snap and splash 

 under the farther bank brings him upright and 

 alert and recalls me from the borders of dream- 

 land. "Dar! Dar! Pull off you' line an' trow him 

 ove* dar," pointing with both hands, one empha- 

 sized with his black pipe, to the widening circles. 



Meekly obedient to my hired master, I make a 



