132 ON A GLASS ROOF 



I called first on the nearest fisherman, an ancient 

 Canuck, so old, I thought, that, being of no use at 

 home, his grown-up great-grandchildren had sent 

 him fishing. Here he was valuable, for he had 

 the gift of his race, and two or three dozen lusty- 

 perch were lying on the ice about him. He kept his 

 short black pipe continually in blast when not re- 

 charging it, smoking home-grown, greenish-black 

 tobacco twisted into a half -inch rope which must 

 have been endless, and so rank that I thought the 

 friends of his youth in Canada might have their 

 memories of him refreshed with a snifip of it, now 

 that the south wind was blowing. As he knew as 

 little English as I French, we had no very sociable 

 intercourse, and it soon grew rather dull for both 

 of us. So after a short tarry I moved on to the next 

 hole, held by a younger Canadian. He had con- 

 quered the Queen's EngUsh, which if he did not 

 murder outright he treated barbarously. He was 

 also a conqueror of fish, and many of his victims 

 lay about him, dead and dying, — perch in mail of 

 iron and gold, smelt sheathed in silver, and herring 

 in mother-of-pearl armor of all nacreous hues and 

 tints. 



"You don' ketch no feesh, ain't it?" he cried, 

 with a grin. " Wal, da's too bad. Ah'm sorry, me." 

 I doubted his sorrowing much for this, for these 

 Canucks think all the fish and all the berries belong 

 to them. 



