THE SALMON. 89 



from out our waters. The willful, stupid obstinacy in 

 building dams without fishways, in crowding the rivers 

 with nets, and neglecting all measures for their protec- 

 tion, have annihilated the noblest of game fish. They 

 are now only to be found in Maine, and to the north- 

 ward of it. The rivers of Maine are no longer worth 

 the angler's attention, and if he would have good sport 

 he must proceed to the- wilds of New Brunswick or 

 Lower Canada. 



In the wild woods of those famed regions they 

 abound, arid there, amid the solitude of nature, in its pri- 

 meval grandeur, the writer has cast the fly over thou- 

 sands, has lured hundreds from their hidden depths, and 

 seen myriads moving about in their romantic pools, or 

 darting away when disturbed ; has waited, casting 

 patiently, for their appearance ; has felt the vigor of 

 their first rush ; has seen them leap, maddened, high out 

 of water ; has experienced all the variations of hope, 

 the exultation of success, and, alas ! the agony of fail- 

 ure. He has known them to dart away resistlessly down 

 some impassable rapid, and leap for joy as they broke 

 his frail tackle, and he has seen them panting with the 

 gaff in their sides and the dark blood streaming over their 

 resplendent scales, as his quick-eyed assistant had secured 

 them at the moment the hook was tearing out. Aye, he 

 once had the good luck of having one that was thrown 

 out of water by the blow, the hook tearing out at the 

 same time, caught on the gaff ere he fell back into the 

 watery grave of hope. 



The glorious sport ! Ye delvers after the ore of gold, 

 hidden as it seems to be in boxes of silk or bales of cot- 



