146 MELTON AND HOMESPUN 



tokens of the very short Canadian twilight were begin- 

 ning to appear on the western skyline, I " hitched to " 

 one of Mac's Buff Orpingtons, and, with a splash that 

 would have scared any self-respecting British trout out 

 of his six senses, cast the fly under the further bank. 

 In an instant it was sucked below the surface in such 

 a decided manner that striking was quite unnecessary, 

 and I realised that I had a good fish on. 



Now, despite all that may be said to the contrary, 

 experience with the Canadian trout leads one to believe 

 that he is not as game a fighter as his British cousin, and 

 after a couple of rushes up-stream and a leap or two, 

 that beautifully marked 18 oz. fish allowed itself to be 

 drawn on to a shelving bank of ooze which was fringed 

 with beautiful white arum lilies. 



Placing my fish amongst a cool bed of rushes, I fished 

 up-stream until too dark to distinguish my rustic lure 

 from amidst the surrounding water-plants, adding a 

 brace of half-pounders to my score. Then I returned to 

 the homestead. It was obvious that Mac did not very 

 much appreciate my powers as an angler; indeed, he 

 scrupled not to tell me that he would have filled 

 a creel with trout while I " monkeyed round " after 

 a leash. 



The farmer and I were up betimes next morning, and 

 after breakfasting upon buckwheat cakes and maple 

 syrup, venison, ham, and, judging from the flavour 

 thereof, bean coffee, we took our guns (Mac a 12-gauge 

 repeater and myself a i6-bore), and, accompanied by a 

 nondescript-looking member of the canine race (a cross 

 between a spaniel and a " window-shutter," I fancy, 

 which answered to the somewhat theatrical name of 



