and the Maritime Provinces. 397 



A writer, in describing the trout fishing in one of the Quebec lakes, says : 



"The matinee of the thousands of woodland songsters awoke me 

 before the sun had yet tipped the tallest pine of the highest mountains. 

 Our Indian sat by the camp fire in the same attitude, with the same immo- 

 bility of feature as when he dissolved into my dreams the previous night. 

 'Bon jour, Francois,' I called, tumbling out from the blankets, 'any news 

 this morning '? 



" ' Bon four, m'sieur — bon jour. Beaucoup de biccassine dans la vall'ic, 

 nCsieur* pointing to a little swale hard by. Sure enough, he was right; 

 for at least twenty couple of long bills were strutting around the boggy 

 ground, boring for dear life into the succulent grasses for their bon bouche, 

 the long red worm. They were wonderfully tame, and I have not unfre- 

 quently remarked that wild animals seem to know 'close time' as well as 

 their persecutors, and that this natural but mistaken reliance on the fair 

 play of man is the cause of the success of the pot-hunter. A regular 

 sousing in the pellucid waters of a mountain brook hard by was followed 

 by a half-tumbler of tansy whiskey, over which Francois made some dia- 

 bolical leers as he engulphed his share; to splice my fly-rod and step into 

 the canoe my Indian had launched was the work of a few minutes only, 

 and then we paddled noiselessly out from the shadowy margin into the 

 open lake. I stood up in the bow selecting my flies, but my eyes and 

 thoughts wandered to the scene before me. The utter, profound solitude, 

 the wild, rugged mountains covered with gigantic pine, except here and 

 there where the naked precipice reflected the brilliant rays of the coming 

 sun, the lighter tints of the maple, the feathery elegance of the silver birch, 

 the stately limbs of the elm and beech, mingling with the sombre hues of 

 the spruce and tamarack, the sweet, cool breath of the morning mists per- 

 fumed with the odor of wild flowers, and above all, the silent, unruffled 

 peacefulness of the forest lake, the lonely canoe upon its bosom, and that 

 relict of romance and savage life behind me, charmed up an ecstatic 

 admiration of all this loveliness, no words can paint. 



"To those alone who seek Nature in the sanctuary of her untrodden 

 solitudes are such emotions known as stirred my heart, as I still stood tying 

 on my flies. I had selected three flies, the compeers of which, after a mul- 

 titude of years' experience, I have never or but rarely met. The trail was 

 the ' Saturday night,' — orange and claret body (mohair), red and claret 

 hackle, gold twist, wood-duck wing. The leader was the ' nettle ' fly, of 

 body dark yellowish-brown, bittern wing, same attennae with the 'hunts- 

 man,' fiery-red body, green peacock hurl, drake wing and golden pheasant 

 attenna; for a bob, or centre. Such a team it would be hard to beat. I 

 directed the Indian towards a jutting point or headland round which the 

 breeze sufficed to make a ripple enough to dance the flies. Not a fish was 

 rising — but as we passed over the clear, transparent waters, I could see the 



