BROOK TROUT 



smoke would pollute the air of a place which has 

 " become religion." And he would sooner take a drink 

 of whiskey before St. Peter, the ancient fisherman who 

 now guards the gates of Paradise, than here, right in a 

 Paradise upon earth. 



The rod is laid on the half-submerged log where he 

 sits, with his rubber-clad feet in the water. He really 

 hears and sees I 



What a contrast to the scenes he beheld last sum- 

 mer along Granite Creek, which flows into the head of 

 St. George's Pond in Newfoundland ! There, the hill- 

 sides were yellow with ripe bake-apple berries ; barrens 

 were gray with Arctic moss; caribou grazed in plain 

 sight on many hills. Moose-birds, tame by reason of 

 their ignorance of human presence, roosted on the ends 

 of the little logs on the camp-fire before the tripod 

 tent. Marsh-hens called and fluttered ; and at night, 

 from far above, could be heard the quacking of ducks 

 and the thrilling " honk ! honk ! honk ! " of the stout- 

 hearted old wild ganders, each winging his way 

 toward Labrador at the head of invisible wedges of 

 night-flying geese. Great trout were in the pools of 

 that stream ; and the steel-gray color of its gravelly 

 bed was very beautiful. And yet, even among such 

 scenes, the angler had longed for the music, the flower 

 and bird life, foliage and mystery of the Slagle ! Its 

 waters flow around his legs now I And they seem to 

 talk to him as they rush : 



