122 BASS-FISHING IN SUNGAHNEETUK 



lake, notably at Kozoapsqua and Sobapsqua. He 

 is handsome, game, and in every way a good fish. 



Again my hook gets foul in a drift of brushwood, 

 and Ruisseau, wading out to clear it, again lapses 

 into profanity over his "jim rubbits, half fill of 

 de creek!" With the Canuck, india-rubber is 

 always "jim rubbit." 



As the stream is drawn to the level of the lake, 

 its character changes more and more. The sluggish 

 current sweeps slowly under the double-curved 

 branches of great water-maples, whose ice-scarred 

 trunks rise from low banks rank with sedge and 

 wild grass and sloping backward to wide, marshy 

 swamps, where we hear bitterns booming, rails 

 cackling, innumerable frogs piping and croaking, 

 and the fine, monotonous chime of toads, and 

 mysterious voices that may be those of birds or of 

 reptiles supposed to be voiceless. Every stream- 

 ward-slanting log now has its row of basking 

 turtles that tumble oflF at our approach, and the 

 little green heron launches as clumsily from his 

 perch in the tall trees and goes flapping before us. 

 Now our way is barred by an impassable outlet of 

 the swamp on one side, and here I catch the last 

 bass of the day. 



A swarm of little fish, the biggest not an inch 

 long, come swimming upstream, a school, yards in 

 length, hugging our shore. As here and there a 

 silver side flashes in the sunhght, it is as if a suit 



