MY BIG TROUT. 



SENEX. 



Last summer I accompanied a party of 

 young men on a fishing excursion, as guide, 

 philosopher and friend. The philosophy 

 and friendship were all right, but at times 

 I suspected the boys were rather sceptical 

 as to the intrinsic value of the guidance. 

 However, they were jolly good fellows, 

 gave me the lightest part of the drudgery, 

 most cheerfully took the hard work on 

 themselves, and were so good natured as 

 to accept my acquaintance with the locality, 

 and experience as a camper, as squaring the 

 account; which was generous of them, and 

 very comforting to me. We camped a 

 fortnight on Snake lake, at the Narrows, 

 something like ioo miles North of Montreal. 

 The greater part of the journey was by 

 rail, but the last 30 miles we drove in 

 wagons along a colonization road through 

 the mountains, arriving at our camping 

 place a short time before dark. The 

 boys had a large army tent, which was 

 at once dining-room and bedroom, while 

 I preferred my little wall tent and solitude. 

 The air was cool and deliciously pure and 

 bracing, and it was a delight simply to ex- 

 ist. The lake was well stocked with grey 

 and spotted trout, the former running up 

 to about 4 pounds weight, and the latter 

 to 2 pounds. They were ready biters, and 

 gamy, and we had no difficulty in keeping 

 the larder well supplied, notwithstanding 

 our prodigious appetites. We had the best 

 luck toward evening, from about an hour's 

 sun till dusk. We had an easy time for 

 some days, but even fishing may become 

 monotonous and we began to wish to catch 

 larger fish. After discussing the question, 

 we concluded that the big fish got up earlier 

 in the morning than we had been accus- 

 tomed to do, and we determined to surprise 

 them; so instead of going out on the lake 

 as usual toward night we built a huge fire 

 on the shore as it became dark, and turned 

 our attention to catching minnows for the 

 proposed early fishing. 



The next morning, as dawn began to 

 show, I turned sleepily out of my blankets, 

 and tried -to rout out the boys in the other 

 tent; but sleep was too sweet, and the 

 chances of rare sport were by no means so 

 attractive as the night before. I, therefore, 

 unwillingly set off alone. It was a beauti- 

 ful morning, the East rosy with the coming 

 dawn, the lake like glass, with here and 

 there little wisps of fog on the surface of 

 the water, while streamers of fog rose from 

 hollows along the. sides of. the mountains 

 bordering on the lake. 



On the East side of the lake, about half 

 a mile from camp, the cliff descended steep- 



ly to the shore, and the water a few feet 

 from the edge was 40 feet deep. I deter- 

 mined to try my luck there. The morning 

 was so still that an anchor was unnecessary. 

 Stopping the motion of the boat, I affixed 

 a minnow to the hook and dropped ths line 

 into the water. My equipment was of the 

 rudest; a cane rod with the tip broken off, 

 so that the small end was about as thick 

 as my little finger, a fine linen line, a No. 

 4 hook hung on double gut, and nary a 

 reel. My boat was one of Mullins' "Get 

 There" duck boats. I settled myself com- 

 fortably to rest and to enjoy the beautiful 

 morning. Soon a gentle pull at my line 

 drew my attention. Waiting a little to 

 give the fish a chance to pouch the minnow, 

 1 gave a quick pull to fix the hook, but 

 found it immovable, and concluded that it 

 had caught in a sunken log, or in a crevice 

 of a rock. I was soon undeceived, for the 

 point of my rod was suddenly and forcibly 

 drawn under water, and I became convinced 

 that something more than an ordinary gray 

 trout was at the end of the line. I put what 

 strain I dared on the line. After a while 

 the fish gave some to the pull, and I re- 

 covered my rod, but from the strength he 

 exhibited, I knew I had hold of a heavy 

 fish; so heavy indeed that I had small hope 

 of landing him with so inflexible a rod, and 

 so fine a line. To maintain the connection 

 for a while was all I could expect. The 

 fish next made a dart sideways, but the light 

 boat whirled around like a top and by 

 keeping the line taut I met that move- 

 ment successfully. His next effort was 

 a dart ahead in a straight line, but the 

 boat followed easily and I kept the point 

 of the rod up. He soon tired of that, and 

 went for the bottom and sulked a while. 

 After a few minutes he responded to the 

 jerking of the line by another rush, darting 

 now this way, now that, and then rushing 

 ahead. Two things were in my favor; the 

 boat was light, facile, yielding almost in- 

 stantly to each impulse of the fish, whirling 

 quickly or moving ahead as occasion re- 

 quired, and the fish kept at the bottom, thus 

 enabling me to keep the line at right angles 

 to the rod. Had the fish risen and attempt- 

 ed to make off and thus get the line and the 

 rod in a straight line, my hold would have 

 been worthless. 



How many times the fish repeated these 

 manoeuvres, or how long a time elapsed, I 

 have no idea. I lost all sense of time, for- 

 got all about the lovely morning, forgot 

 camp and breakfast, completely absorbed 

 in the exciting though almost hopeless con- 

 test. At last the fish's efforts became sens- 



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