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my line. Again I tried, and with the like success, — the 

 fish were monsters, and again I broke my line. I'll try 

 no more with such weak tackle 1 I was stopping for a few 

 weeks at the village, and having hastened home prepared 

 my salmon gear, made a few good flies, copying my na- 

 tural fly as near as possible. The early dawn saw me at the 

 river's brink, — two friends were with me to see the sport, 

 I threw, and threw again, at each successive cast a fish 

 rolled up, shewing their backs and fins. My friends ex- 

 claimed, " They're porpoises, not salmon !" I got enraged, 

 I could not strike a fish. At last a fellow rose and took 

 the fly, I struck and hooked him,— no fear now, my tackle's 

 good, and so with some slight caution; and a little time, I 

 killed my fish: a small one in comparison with those I killed 

 the ensuing week. 



That was in '51, and every year I have killed fish with 

 flies of the same make. Last year I beat the'waters with 

 larger and diflferent flies, some I had given me by my 

 friend Dr. Adamson, favorites of the Moisie and other 

 streams below the Saguenay, — 'twas no avail. I saw a 

 heavy swirl, and though it was a fish, hastening ashore, I 

 put on my favourite fly, and in less than five minutes had 

 hooked a monster fish, which, after an hour's hard stand 

 up fight, — o'er rapids, rocks, and falls, I landed, and that 

 without a gaff, — a splendid fish of eighteen pounds, and 

 just three feet in length. 



Therefore, my piscatorial friends will sure admit : 

 The claim I make, to name my favorite. 



