With Gun P Rod in Canada 



have had something to do with it. If our friend, the 

 sauce-maker of " 57 varieties " of fame, could bottle 

 some Rocky Mountain air and sell it for the sharpening 

 of the jaded Eastern appetite, he could discard the 

 original " 57," and, calling the new mixture " Oxy- 

 nitrogen Piquant a la Rocky Mountain," double his 

 sales. 



The next day we climbed slowly toward snow-line, 

 hunting as we went, leading our horses much of the time, 

 and using our field-glasses where the country was open 

 enough. After lunch we espied one small band of 

 sheep on a shoulder of Baldy Mountain itself, but they 

 were too far off to shoot at or go after. This night we 

 camped under one of the ridges, making the fire on the 

 edge of a snow-water lake. This lake gave rise to one of 

 the many streamlets or creeks fed by the eternal snows 

 of the mountain peak. 



As we are but slowly progressing to the incident of 

 the coffee-pot and the grizzly, I am going to continue 

 loitering and tell a fish story. 



The tiny lake before our camp was ice-cold and 

 perfectly clear, having a pebbly bottom. It did not 

 seem to be over two feet deep and was full of speckled 

 trout. They were so thick that I thought at first they 

 were suckers. I fired my six-gun at a big one near the 

 surface and killed it. After wading in and taking up 

 the dead fish in my hands, and incidentally freezing my 

 feet, I discovered I had a most remarkable specimen. 

 It was about eighteen inches long and had all the mark- 

 ings of the Eastern brook-trout. But it was the leanest 

 fish I had ever seen, being about the same proportions as 

 a skinny pickerel. In Dave's presence I cleaned it and 

 took from its stomach another lean-looking trout, seven 

 or eight inches long. For curiosity's sake I cut this fish 

 open, and found within it the skin and bones of another 



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