With Gun P Rod in Canada 



wandered over, after supper, to sit with Ma-tee-o in 

 front of his little Indian fire. 



I asked him what he knew about the big fish. In the 

 usual contemplative Indian way, he said : 



" Him there." 



" Just where, Ma-tee-o ?" I ventured. 



" Sometime big eddy . . . Trout Rock. . . . Some- 

 time Boom Rock, where water get mad." (He meant 

 where the waters divide and run in separate streams to 

 the mouth of the river.) " Mostly first big eddy . . . 

 dark side . . . below Arthur's Ledges." 



" Do you think there is more than one big fish in this 

 part of the river ?" I asked. 



" Not like him," he replied, quickly. 



" Did you ever see him ?" again I questioned. 



" Three . . . four time," said Ma-tee-o. 



" Did you ever try to catch him ?" I persisted. 



Old Ma-tee-o' s eyes twinkled. "Me spear him 



once.' 



" You speared him !" we both exclaimed together. 

 " How did he get away ?" 



Before answering, Ma-tee-o knocked the ashes out of 

 his pipe, and indicating a lack of both matches and 

 tobacco by feeling in all his ragged pockets for them, he 

 exercised the prerogative of the Indian race in its dealings 

 with the intrusive white man, and accepted my tender 

 of both as his just due. Ceremoniously filling his pipe 

 and tossing a pinch of tobacco over his shoulder to his 

 friend the Wind, he lit up and courteously handed back 

 my sack of tobacco. After a few quiet puffs, he gravely 

 proffered the pipe to the lady burdened with a portion 

 of my (up to this time) good name. Outside of a humor- 

 ous twinkle in his eyes, one would have thought his 

 surprise at her confused refusal was genuine. Patiently 

 waiting for Ma-tee-o to take up the thread of the tale 



230 



