A DAY ON THE BULLY. 



BY CHARLEJ 



BRAMBLE. 



There are lots of bully rivers — but only 

 one Bully that I know of with a big, big, B. 

 To reach it you must travel far, and you 

 may travel fast, that is if you study time- 

 tables and make connections. The Bully is 

 not a very large river, but there are trout 

 in it. I don't think it will ever be fished 

 out, because the taking of those active, be- 

 jeweled fontinalii, from its scum-covered 

 pools is a strenuous undertaking. The river 

 acquired its name through a pup that be- 

 longed to a trapper in the early days of the 

 region. The pup has some bull blood ; there- 

 fore it was, naturally enough, called Bully, 

 and hence, the river was christened Bully, 

 since the pup fell into it and was nearly 

 drowned. If this explanation is not suffi- 

 ciently lucid I must refer the inquirer to the 

 pup. 



The first stopping place on the way to the 

 Bully is Montreal. Your stay there need not 

 be a long one, as the night express from 

 New York, over any of the crack lines, lands 

 you in that city in ample time to catch the 

 morning train to St. Faustin. This is a 

 station fifty-seven miles from Montreal, and 

 it should be reached three hours later. 



If you have never been in the Laurentians 

 you have missed some charming scenery, and 

 as pure air as the continent affords. There 

 are two modest and moderate hotels in the 

 little village. The climate is delightful, the 

 fishing most excellent.— but the native to- 

 bacco is rank and smells to high heaven. 



From St. Faustin it is five miles North 

 by East to the Bully. You may walk the 

 five miles, but I am willing to wager a small 

 sum that you will not do it more than once ; 

 for many of those miles run on edge, and 

 horse hire is the cheapest thing in that 

 country, barring, of course, whiskey, blanc? 



By and by you will arrive ; battered, 

 bruised, mud-besplashed and. perchance, 

 fly-bitten ; but, if you are a fisherman, these 

 trifles will fade into absolute insignificance, 

 when you realize that at length you stand 

 beside the Bully ! 



But, of course, mere standing beside the 

 Bully will not add to the weight of the bas- 

 ket, and, perhaps, I had better tell how I 

 got my last creel of trout from it, in order 

 that others may be induced to try. 



Beginning at the bridge, I fished down. 



That meant hanging on by one hand to the 

 bushes, doing various gymnastic ptunts that 

 would delight an anthropoid ape, with occa- 

 sional breathing spells where a man might 

 wade and dream to the hum of live mos- 

 quitoes from the bend — but dream is not the 

 correct word. It should also mean a full 

 creel within three-quarters of a mile of the 

 bridge; the smallest victim measuring a full 

 eight inches, and the one you put on the top 

 twice that. 



My outfit consisted of a to foot, J l / 2 

 ounce, split bamboo, plain click reel, holding 

 thirty yards of suitable line, stout gut lead- 

 ers, and a book well stocked with, Profes- 

 sors, Montreals, Alders, May flies, Jenny 

 Linds, and Silver Doctors, in sizes ranging 

 from No. 6 to No. 12 O'Shauglmcssy. 



The fun began just below Grcnon's little 

 mill, and I had some terrible tussles with the 

 vigorous trout, as the water is swift, the 

 pools small, and the bushes inconveniently 

 luxuriant. Half an hour later I landed my 

 big fellow: an honest two-pounder, that 

 sucked in an Alder on a No. 6 hook so gently 

 that I did not for a few moments suspect 

 his aldermanic proportions. His lair was a 

 little side pool, entirely covered by the 

 brown, soap-bubble foam that one invaribly 

 finds on the Bully at mid-summer. I was 

 just a bit lucky to basket him, as once out of 

 the pool he would have broken me without 

 a doubt. 



The gorge, or canyon, through which the 

 river flows, eventually develops into a more 

 steady river. But it is not so good, as the 

 habitant farmer's boy can fish it, and does 

 so, in the spring, when the water is high and 

 the worm a deadly bait. Your best chance 

 is in the difficult reaches, and when the 

 water is low and clear. Then a No. 8, or 

 smaller, will yield many a good fish. 



It is a crowning mercy that the farmer 

 boy does not know how to fish with the fly, 

 otherwise, there would be infinitely poorer 

 fishing than there is to-day all through the 

 beautiful Laurentian country. 



If you do not fancy hard work, there are, 

 I believe, thirteen lakes, all holding trout, 

 within half a day's drive of St. Faustin. 

 One of them is near the station, but with 

 the exception of early May, the fishing in it 

 is nothing to boast of, though a few fish may 

 be picked up by a careful angler .who will 

 rise betimes. 



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