With Gun p Rod in Canada 



that sets the hook in the fish's mouth was amazing, and 

 led to rather an interesting adventure. 



Walter made a long cast, and as the line straightened 

 out the flies spread and paused an instant before dropping 

 lightly on the water. A big trout jumped to meet the 

 middle fly while it was still in the air. Walter either 

 saw or sensed the rise, and twitched his line when the 

 trout reached the apex of his leap ; but the trout missed, 

 the end of the leader wrapped around his tail, and the 

 hook on the end fly hooked in turn around the leader, 

 making a slip-noose about the trout's tail. The fight 

 was on. I should judge Walter was fully ten minutes 

 landing that fish. 



It was four miles to the Screecher, and although we had 

 a head wind, Joe did not seem to mind in the least 

 rowing his heavy cargo. 



The Screecher we found upon landing was a short 

 brook connecting the Fourth Lake to Lake Rossignol, and 

 the portage from one lake to the other was not over one 

 hundred feet. Its gruesome name was given on account 

 of the screeching sound the wind made passing through 

 the opening in the trees over the brook. On the west 

 side of the stream is a private sporting-camp and an 

 Indian burying-ground. Joe said the Indians dug the 

 graves and lined them with beach stones, of which there 

 were an abundance upon the shore. The giant of the 

 Micmac tribe is buried in this spot, and his skeleton 

 exhumed by the natives was said to be seven and a half 

 feet long. Tradition has it that this giant was a wonder- 

 ful skater and leaper, and broke his back while jumping 

 over seven blankets laid end to end on the ice. 



We caught the limit in the Screecher brook that 

 afternoon, and had another wonderful night with camp- 

 fire, moonlight, and bough bed. The latter was made 

 of hemlock " feathers." The next morning Joe rowed 



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