IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



erest cook that ever cheered a hungry boy. 

 Our little trout from neighbouring brooks 

 received attentions due worthier fish. 



A lesson of 1873 must survive by grace 

 of some preservative moral quality. Driv- 

 ing back to Chamard's from Brassard's 

 creek, as then it was called — the tiny burn 

 that joins the Mailloux just below the 

 mauvaise cote (the cote Brassard) — a 

 young acquaintance hailed with the imme- 

 morial question: — 'what luck?' I recall no 

 disposition towards reticence, perhaps there 

 was even a shade of eagerness in the re- 

 ply: — 'nine dozen'. Whereupon my father 

 rebuked the flagrant boastfulness of the an- 

 swer, and the small boy called me a liar! 

 Pondering the incident after this decent 

 lapse of time the principle seems to emerge 

 that it is often as inexpedient to tell the 

 truth as to lie — unnecessarily. 



The moment is convenient for confiding 

 to any worthy youngster between the ages 

 of ten and seventy that all the little streams 

 within a dozen miles of Pointe au Pic, save 

 only the Petit Ruisseau, still hold trout; 

 ;md will yield a basket to one who pushes 

 beyond the beaten track with two joints of 

 a stiflf rod, plenty of good worms, and a 

 boy's heart. 



34 



