THE PASSING OF THE SALMON. 



HARRY LEONARD. 



It is an old story in the West ; a story of 

 bloodshed, a story of civilization and of 

 murder. For, to our wild creatures, one 

 means the other. Everyone knows the fate 

 of the buffalo ; the antelope are fast fol- 

 lowing. All our big game is taking that 

 last journey from which there is no re- 

 turn. 



Close behind them are following the 

 game fishes ; notably the salmon, which, a 

 few years ago, were so thick one could al- 

 most cross a river walking on them. 



When summer comes, the salmon comes ; 

 not in small schools or shoals, but by 

 millions. They cruise along their favorite 

 route, to their river homes. From early 

 morning until late at night, great, glisten- 

 ing fish leap and fall. The bays and sounds 

 are a dazzle of churning silver. 



Suddenly their passage is obstructed. 

 They turn aside at this obstruction ; it may 

 be a net or perhaps a wire screen. In 

 either case, it is death. They follow that 

 wire leader and slowly but surely go into 

 the heart, then into the deadly traps, then 

 to the spiller. It is all so easy, all so sim- 

 ple. When they realize they are caught, 

 they dash wildly about at first. Then 

 later, more deliberately, they seek that fa- 

 tal opening. It is there, but they can not 

 find it. Around and around they swim ; 

 they pass and repass the outlet. But not 

 once do they see it; or seeing do they es- 

 cape. 



For hours, or perhaps days they swim 

 about that fatal barrier. Ever more weary, 

 ever growing in numbers, until in fatal 

 mercy, a great net closes about them. 

 A swing in air ; a blinding flash of light, 

 and soon the salmon dies beneath tons of 

 suffering brethren. 



Such is its welcome home. Above water, 

 in scows and tow-boats, are perspiring men, 

 wet and bloody, throwing, hauling and 

 heaving. One crew relieves another; there 



is no stopping. From morning until even- 

 ing it is a struggle to kill. The fish run 

 in as fast as they are bailed out. Then 

 darkness comes and a forced rest until 

 morning. When morning dawns again the 

 killing begins. 



Sometimes a great black and yellow body, 

 12 feet long, leaps in air. The water foams. 

 Crash ! thud ! The water grows bloody. An- 

 other well directed blow and all is over. 

 Then into the scow is dragged a great 

 sturgeon. Occasionally a seal is captured 

 and the scene is reacted. 



Smelt, herring, trout and many other 

 fish that stray into the great traps escape 

 through the large mesh on which the law 

 insists,. But there is no escape for the lord- 

 ly chinook, the grand tyee, the handsome 

 silver, or the ugly humpback salmon ; all 

 are served alike. 



Meanwhile the long tailed heathen in the 

 cannery are cutting and cleaning all day 

 and all night. They must make the most 

 of this silver harvest. Slowly but surely 

 they drop behind. More men are set to 

 work, but no use ; the fish are corning too 

 fast. Then comes the dread report, "fish 

 spoiled;" and great tugs face seaward, 

 towing scow loads of fish to be dumped 

 overboard. 



Still the traps work overtime. Then 

 comes the sickening part of it. The dead 

 fish float ashore to mingle with the offal of 

 the canneries and a stench arises that nearly 

 drives one mad. The excuse for it, if 

 one is sought, is that the fish will die any- 

 way. 



So the killing continues, each year getting 

 worse ; greater traps, greater capital and 

 greater contrivances. 



Our government is doing all it can to 

 propagate food fishes and to restock our 

 waters ; but how long will it be before 

 our salmon are practically exterminated? 



"I'm so tired this morning," said the 

 first moth. 



"Up late last night?" asked the second. 



"Yes," replied the first, "I was at a cam- 

 phor ball."— St. Paul Globe. 

 27s 



