NEW BRUNSWICK. 123 



had taken all the fish he wanted at a station further on, 

 we broke up camp at once, to the great disgust of our 

 lazy cook, who thought he had cut his " sprunghungle," 

 or stick that supports the kettle over the fire, for the last 

 time. We pushed on to Burnt Hill, a famous camping- 

 ground among all those that fish the Miramichi, and 

 there, on the open point near the rock at whose base is 

 the deep pool where salmon lie when the water is warm, 

 we established our sylvan home for the last time. 



Burnt Hill is so named from having been burnt over, 

 years ago, and is still a mass of dead and blackened 

 trunks, that tower in fantastic shapes toward the sky. 

 Next morning, having selected my choicest cariboo fly, 

 Abraham pushed the canoe across the boiling torrent, 

 so that I could fish near the rocky shore opposite. Hav- 

 ing made several casts toward the bank, he swung the 

 canoe in, and, running its nose on a rock, gave me a 

 chance to fish the centre of the channel. I had hardly 

 cast, when from out the curling wave rushed a mighty 

 monster, which gleamed a moment in the sunshine and 

 disappeared. I felt a heavy, dull strain on my rod, the 

 fish swam deep and seemed unconscious of what had 

 happened. Then, suddenly aroused to his danger, a 

 magnificent salmon rushed down-stream and vaulted 

 high out of water. Abraham glanced at me ; I returned 

 the look, but not one word was spoken. The fish 

 returned to his former station, as though disdaining a 

 struggle with a fragile cord and contemptible fly, and 

 re i i mined there some moments, heavily swimming round 

 and round. Suddenly he became alarmed, and away 

 he went, thirty yards at least, the line whistling through 



