SALMO FONTINALIS. 



A. O. Pritchard. 



ON the high-lands of Pictou and 

 Guysboro' counties, Province of 

 Nova Scotia, there are many 

 lakes, the surplus water from which finds 

 its way into the Straits of Northumber- 

 land, on the one side of the province, 

 and into the Atlantic Ocean on "the 

 other. In times past these lakes 

 abounded with trout, but of late 

 years the development of the mineral 

 resources of this province, lying close 

 to the lakes, has injured the fishing. 

 The irrepressible miner (in spite of fish- 

 ery laws) with his torch and spear, his 

 trawl, his net and, above all, his dyna- 

 mite cartridge, is doing his work of de- 

 struction. In spite of all these destruc- 

 tive agencies the deciple of Walton can 

 still find grand sport by penetrating the 

 heart of the forest. The trout found in 

 all these lakes belong to the species 

 Salmo Fontinalis. So far as I know the 

 largest yet caught did not exceed six 

 pounds in weight. They vary in size 

 according to the nature and quality of 

 the food the lake produces. They are 

 of a dark color, and are beautifully 

 marked, but when taken from the water 

 the color soon fades. They have been 

 introduced into the lakes of the High- 

 lands of Scotland, where they seem to 

 thrive better than in this country, for 

 they have been caught there up to seven 

 pounds. It has been conceded by con- 

 noisseurs that in form, color, flavor and 

 "fight" there are no trout to compare 

 with them in the British Isles. 



In the month of July, 188-, I hired a 

 wagon, and in company with a friend, 



drove from , in Pictou county to 



Caledonia in Guysboro' county, a dis- 

 tance of about 20 miles. It was nearly 

 dark when we arrived at our stopping 

 place. We hired a man to pilot us to a 

 lake about three miles from the settle- 

 ment, and shouldering our load of pro- 

 visions, entered the forest under the 

 light of a beautiful moon, and in about 

 two hours time found ourselves on 

 the shores of Round lake. The heat 

 was oppressive, and as the night was un- 

 usually calm, the water of the lake warm, 

 the sky cloudless, I concluded our pros- 



pect of success on the morrow was slim. 

 Then the raft was not visible, but had 

 been carried off by the wind to some 

 other part of the lake. I ordered the 

 hired man, John, to go in search of it 

 before daylight. With my plans for the 

 morning thus settled, 1 rolled myself in 

 my blanket and fell asleep. I was awake 

 at the first glimmering of dawn. I gazed 

 on my friend by the light of the camp 

 fire (who, for obvious reasons, I will 

 designate Snooks) who was snugly en- 

 sconced under his blanket. He was evi- 

 dently in the seventh heaven of sublun- 

 ary bliss ; with his mouth wide open, 

 "driving the pigs home" in fine style, 

 while the mosquitoes were holding 

 carnival about his nose and eyes. The 

 smile on his countenance was celestial. 

 So blissful, so peaceful were his slum- 

 bers that I had some compunction about 

 disturbing him. I called him, but with- 

 out effect. I poked him with my rod, 

 when, after some incoherent remarks 

 about the windows being open, and a 

 big fight with the mosquitoes, he in- 

 quired what I meant by going fishing in 

 the middle of the night ; so without 

 further parley I picked up my rod, and 

 wended my way through the dark glades 

 in the direction of that part of the lake 

 where I had been informed the trout 

 were likely to be found, as there was a 

 small stream of cool water coming in 

 from that quarter. Now every expe- 

 rienced angler knows that in sultry 

 weather, when the air is balmy and still, 

 and the water is above the temperature 

 favorable for fishing, his only chance of 

 success is just about daybreak, when the 

 trout are waiting for the flies to come 

 down on the water. After considerable- 

 difficulty in finding my way through the 

 bush, I at last arrived at the destined 

 spot. I took from my hat a favorite 

 cast, made up ofOrvis flies. The Brown 

 Hackle, the Royal Coachman, and the 

 most killing of all, in these waters, the 

 Montreal for tail fly. My gear being 

 properly adjusted 1 waded as far as I 

 could into the lake and made my first 

 cast. It was still dark. Not a breath 

 of air stirred the calm surface, not a 



