THE HOME OF GLOOSCAP. 59 



on the North Shore casting his sixty-foot line 

 with unerring hand over the dark pool from 

 which he had just taken a three-pound trout. 

 In his creel lay also a five-pound trout, and his 

 man whispered to us that a ten-pound salmon 

 had been taken by the same magic line that 

 morning. Battles between big salmon, or trout, 

 and man armed with his cobweb line and tiny 

 hook command admiration, but they make the 

 inane hooking of six-inch trout in our New 

 England brooks seem contemptible. 



The next morning I was up and dressed at 

 half past three, standing on Angus McDonald's 

 doorstep, and rejoicing in the sense of lightness, 

 purity, and strength which comes at dawn. 

 When Gabriel blows his trumpet, I hope he will 

 select the moment before sunrise for his sum- 

 mons. 



Eastward, the placid sea reached away to- 

 wards Newfoundland, St. Pierre, and the red 

 sun. Newfoundland and St. Pierre were hiding 

 behind the curve of the sea, but the sun was 

 climbing above it, and peering, dim-eyed, through 

 the fog. Westward, beyond a dew-drenched 

 swale, rose the hills covered with balsam, black 

 spruce, and white spruce. Darkness still per- 

 vaded the woods, for the sun was too dim to 

 illuminate their pinnacles, or even to gild the 

 sea or tint the sails of the fishing-smacks, al- 



