IN PARADISE. 



E. J. MEYERS. 



Ken ye the Ian' o' the laight grey skies 



Whaur the green pine nods an' the wild bird cries; 



Whaur the heather blooms an' the gowan blows, 



An' sweet is the scent o' the wild briar rose ? 



'Ken ye the Ian' ? I am fain, I am fain, 



Tae see the blue hills o' my ain Ian' again ! 



The wild billows that rage in winter and 

 the surf that prevails in summer have eaten 

 the West coast until they beat against 

 the base of the mountains and form the 

 bluff tableland that stretches from Port 

 aux Basque to Baie St. George. The train, 

 perfect in detail of dining car, buffet and 

 sleeper, takes its way from the port, which 

 the Spanish pirates found, and which to 

 this day is famed, with no little annoyance 

 to the law, for the rum and Madeira that 

 find an entrance without custom. Thence, 

 overlooking the brown sails of the skiffs 

 and smacks off shore and white sails afar; 

 the huts and cabins of the fishermen on the 

 shore, and the blue gulf and white billows 

 reaching to the horizon's rim, "where like 

 a shoaling sea the blue plays into green," 

 the iron pathway runs between mountain 

 gorges and down prehistoric waterways 

 which have anticipated surveyor and build- 

 er and prepared the road for the irons, as 

 the Newfoundlander calls the rails. Across 

 the Little Cod river, famous for sea trout, 

 not salmon, and up the Grand Cod Roy 

 river, which is crossed near the lake, the 

 train pursues the iron road. From the 

 easy cushions of the palace car one sees 

 the celebrated pools of the Grande river, 

 and doubts the wisdom of pursuing the 

 will-o'-the wisp when known sport is at 

 hand. Long as the memory of the old- 

 est inhabitant reaches, the visits of the of- 

 ficers of the British warships to the Over- 

 falls are known; and there likewise came 

 Prince George, with bishops, deans and 

 humbler sportsmen, simple anglers, like 

 myself, following after. There is Big Sal- 

 mon pool, and there is Mollie Chigaunay 

 — call it, as I did, Mollie's Chickens. Then 

 come the Forks, the Dean's pool, etc. 

 The salmon in the Grande river run to 30 

 pounds, and royal sport may be had on 

 its waters, which I faithfully fished for 5 

 years. In the largeness of the angler's 

 heart I give the name and address of 

 Clement Doyle, Island View, Codroy, and 

 Postmaster Smith, of Channel, Newfound- 

 land, to whom every reader of Recreation 

 is welcome to write for further details. 



Eighteen miles from the sea, where Har- 

 ry's brook pours into St. George's bay, 

 the train leaves the shore for its way 

 across the island. At the Bay of Islands 

 the railway takes along the banks of the 

 Humber, and I have heard world-wide 



travelers say this stretch of scenery is un- 

 surpassed. In my own ken it is unrivalled. 

 Mountain encroaches on mountain only 

 to be divided by the tremendous flow of 

 water that drains 2 great inland seas, each 

 as large as our Great Lakes; yet in the 

 Ancient Colony they are all called ponds. 

 Nearly a score of years ago in going up 

 the Humber we had to warp our way 

 through gorges that never freeze, even 

 though as far North as the 49th parallel. 

 In its tremendous rush to the sea beneath 

 the shadows of the mountains the water 

 seems jet black, like ink, and under the 

 pressure is glace in its smoothness. Along 

 the shores, forming caves of great distance, 

 are marble masses, white, black - , green, 

 brown and red mottled, with here and 

 there silver deposits gleaming in the sun. 

 Between the Humber and Harry's brook 

 are the Great Barrens, over which the 

 train speeds, and there abound the herds 

 of caribou. 



The train stops at Paradise, leaves the 

 "Missus" and me, provisions, tents and 

 guides, Clem, Tobin, Tomas and Andre, 

 and goes on. We are the first settlers in 

 Paradise, and must build ourselves a home. 

 Save now and then a stray officer from 

 Her Majesty's warships, the waters are 

 virgin, and, save for a hunter more rashly 

 venturesome than even that strange land 

 can recount, the Barrens know not the 

 human voice. Without a foot of meadow 

 land or intervale, the river flows down 

 through the mountains precipitously 

 stooping from peak to base, and zig-zags 

 an eccentric course whose turns form 

 pools from Long pond to the bay, in it- 

 self a great arm of the sea. 



Long pond, a beautiful sheet of water 

 that reminded the Missus of Lake George, 

 and me of the tarn Poe describes, is where 

 the salmon rest on their way from the sea 

 to the spawning grounds, and where they 

 may be seen leaping all day until late in 

 July, when they start for the spawning 

 beds. From the broad veranda of the log 

 cabin one may see salmon break the water 

 until desire can brook the sight no longer. 

 Through the great intervale around the 

 house flows Spruce brook, full of trout; 

 and 7 miles away, over a carry well 

 constructed by Dodd, of the log cabin, lies 

 Serpentine river. I know few sportsmen 

 who have been to Serpentine river, but 

 each of them says the same: That great 

 are the rivers Nepigon, Cascapedia, Au- 

 gustine, but there is still the Serpentine. 

 A great New York sportsman awarded it 

 the palm, and one of the best-known au- 



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