With Gun P Rod in Canada 



ment among the leaves near the lunch-basket. In a 

 second or two a little kangaroo mouse hopped curiously 

 toward it. I cautiously reached for the dip-net, which 

 was leaning against a near-by tree, and the next instant 

 had Mr. Mouse all tangled up in it. A moment more 

 and he was wiggling alluringly with the big hook of my 

 salmon-fly under his backbone. Playing our " hunch " 

 for all it was worth, we stepped into the canoe, pushed 

 out into the stream just above the big eddy, dropped the 

 kellick and the wiggling, squealing bait almost simul- 

 taneously into the water. 



With fifteen feet of line hardly straightened out in the 

 current, there was a splash, a tug at the line, a glimpse 

 of an enormous square tail, and the reel sang, " Home, 

 Sweet Home !" We had him ! He ran straight down 

 with the current, making for the middle of the river. 

 With a hundred and fifty yards of real salmon line, a 

 leader of the best gut, and a hook made for handling a 

 twenty-pound Nova Scotia winter salmon, I wasn't 

 worrying much about that fish getting away, providing 

 I could keep him from snagging the line. With seventy- 

 five yards out I put on the brake. In ten minutes I had 

 him quiet and gaping within reach of my dip-net. In 

 another instant he was in the canoe, apparently drowned. 

 He was a monster. The mouse was gone. My hook 

 was driven completely through the hard cartilage of his 

 upper jaw. Two other small but much worn trout-flies 

 stuck belligerently from either side of his cavernous 

 mouth like Prussian moustachios. Many a ragged scar 

 decorated his lips. Holding him up with a grin of glee 

 to my canoe-mate, who had greatly assisted with much 

 advice while I was landing the historic warrior, she took 

 his picture, with the Kodak set at a six-foot focus, and 

 the fine light of high noon at her back. Then I weighed 

 him six and three-quarter pounds ! I laid the limp 



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