THE LOWER ST. LAWRENCE. 163 



" Me tink about four mile mebby." 



" Comme longtemps pensez vous, a faire le voyage ?" 



" Comment ? " 



" No comprenez ? " 



"Non, Monsieur." 



"Pshaw! these Frenchmen can't speak their own lan- 

 guage. You see they only speak a sort of patois. Let me 

 see: Combien de temps — that's it — how long — a faire le 

 voyage ? How much time — go up — eh ?" 



" Oh, two hour, I suppose." 



"Ah well, then we shall have time to stop and catch a few 

 fish for supper. This looks like a good place. I say, PieiTe, 

 bon place a peche, ici ? — a prendre poisson ? " 



" Oui — poisson — good place — catch fish." 



"Then let's hold on — Arret — la! voila le roche — 1' autre 

 cote — there — ^tenez." 



Pierre holds the canoe in mid-stream and we cast our flies 

 in the eddies and around the rocks with gratifying results. 

 The fish are voracious and bite freely. Soon we have a 

 dozen. Then the biting begins to slacken, and it is evident 

 the fish have been all taken, or have become wary. 



"Pierre! eh bien! montez — no — go down stream — go — 

 confound it — comment I'appelez — descendez.'" 



" Oui, Monsieur — all right." 



" Look out there— prenez garde ! plague take it — sacre — 

 you've crossed my line. I say, PieiTe, clear that line, will 

 you ? tirez-vous mou ligne, s'il vous plait — tliere — ho7i. 

 We'll try it here awhile." 



The Jacques Cartier is not a very violent stream, though 

 it is broken by frequent rough water and an occasional 

 strong rapid ; and sometimes it widens into little bays where 

 there are good pools. By the time we reach the camp it is 

 near sunset, and our string of trout has increased to several 

 dozen. Here there is a winter shanty made of birch b'ark, 

 which has been occupied by beaver trappers, we know ; for 

 there are several frames near by which they used for stretch- 



