IN THE LAND OF NOD 101 



found him. Do I hear pathetic cries from my 

 brother preachers piscatorially inclined, asking, 

 "What's his name?" "Where does he live?" 

 S-s-h ! my dear brethren. He is pre-empted by the 

 writer, and to protect you from any temptation to 

 trespass, we'll just call him the Judge. Only the 

 writer's unimpeachable veracity as a teller of fish 

 stories will save him from mild suspicion when he 

 makes the following statement: The Judge, who 

 knew every pool for ten miles around where the 

 big trout rendezvous, insisted that the Preacher 

 should have first chance at these fascinating spots. 

 Don't believe it ? Well, no one can blame you for 

 your skepticism, for in the annals of fishermen 

 from the days of Izaak Walton until now, no other 

 such example of self-abnegation is to be found. 



It was on a Monday morning that the Judge and 

 the Preacher made their first descent upon the un- 

 suspecting trout. The point of attack was on a 

 tidal stream known as Tryon Creek. Some of the 

 writer's friends have grinned derisively when he 

 has told them of the " sea-trout" of Prince Edward 

 Island, and one listener opined that " weak-fish " 

 were probably meant. Of course there are always 

 a few people around who enjoy the rare delights 

 of omniscience, and it is useless to offer informa- 

 tion to such. But for the benefit of the uninformed 

 and open-minded let it be said that in every tidal 

 stream on the south shore of Prince Edward Island, 

 the well-known, square-tailed, speckled trout are 



