But Ismaquehs knew just when to stop. 

 With a cry of rage he dropped, or rather 

 threw his fish, hoping it would strike the Cloud-tOings 

 water and be lost. On the instant the eagle M e ^ ^/e 

 wheeled out of the way and bent his head 

 sharply. I had seen him fold wings and 

 drop before, and had held my breath at the 

 speed. But dropping was of no use now, 

 for the fish fell faster. Instead he swooped 

 downward, adding to the weight of his fall 

 the push of his strong wings, glancing down 

 like a bolt to catch the fish ere it struck the 

 water, and rising again in a great curve — 

 up and away steadily, evenly, as the king 

 should fly, to his own little ones far away 

 on the mountain. 



Weeks before, I had my introduction to 

 Old Whitehead, as Gillie called him, on the 

 Madawaska. We were pushing up river on 

 our way to the wilderness, when a great 

 outcry and the bang-bang of a* gun sounded 

 just ahead. Dashing round a wooded bend, 

 we came upon a man with a smoking gun, 

 a boy up to his middle in the river, try- 

 ing to get across, and, on the other side, a 



