IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 203 



towards the farm-house not only without a trout, 

 but not having had one rise in response to the in- 

 calculable number of times that the alluring flies 

 had been cast. The next morning, at sunrise, we 

 were on the stream again, and four hours of faith- 

 ful fishing brought in return two small trout which 

 had evidently escaped from some asylum for 

 feeble-minded fish. 



On our way out we had noticed an attractive 

 looking stream which we crossed some ten miles 

 from Manitowaning. Just by the bridge over this 

 stream stood the remains of an old mill, half fallen 

 down and with the timbers of the dam furnishing 

 ideal hiding places for trout. When this spot was 

 reached on the return trip the pull was too strong 

 to be resisted and, hitching the apology for a horse 

 to a nearby fence, preparations were made for a 

 foray upon the unsuspecting fish. Fly-casting was 

 out of the question and, after choosing a new snood 

 of double gut and covering the hook with an ex- 

 ceedingly plethoric angleworm, the bait was cau- 

 tiously dropped into the rushing waters at the 

 upper side of the ruins of the flume. Slowly the 

 line was paid out and the lure allowed to go far 

 down out of sight. Zip! Yank! Tug! and it's all 

 over. Under the conditions, any such thing as 

 playing the fish was out of the question, and the 

 straight-away pull parted that new snood as if it 

 had been made of a single strand of cotton thread. 

 Our humiliation was complete, and with a thor- 



