134: NEW BRUNSWICK. 



where the hook holds ? The matter is so complex, that 

 the most careful investigation has left me even without 

 a theory. Some of my friends swear by one of the 

 above plans, others by another ; I have tried them all, 

 and still the fish escape as frequently as ever. 



As we approached a well-remembered spot where I 

 had taken a fine grilse in ascending, Abraham slowly 

 said : 



"Take care as we come down to this pool, for I am 

 like the man that once shot a bear at a cleared spot just 

 below, and whenever afterward he came to the same 

 place, he clambered on the highest stump, and looked 

 around to see whether there was not another bear. 

 Wherever we took one fish, I always expect to take 

 another." 



I told him it was somewhat the same with me, but in 

 that instance we were doomed to disappointment there 

 was no second bear. 



At Sandy Pond we made our camp for the night, as 

 my friend had never seen a fish killed with the spear, 

 and, although admitting its unsportsmanlike character, 

 wished to experience how it was done. 



When darkness had settled down, our men kindled a 

 flaming fire of pine knots, in an iron basket attached to 

 a pole that projected from the bow of the canoe, and 

 seating my friend amidships between them, pushed off. 

 They pulled against the stream, the bright light bringing 

 out the stones at the bottom of the water in strong relief, 

 exposing everything within a radius of twenty feet. 

 Behind it stood the spearsman, erect, his quick eye 

 glancing in every direction, the firelight falling upon 



