A CANADIAN TROUTING TRIP. 



B. KELLY. 



The brook trout in the aquarium at Bat- 

 tery park did it. , 



As I watched them lazily flashing to and 

 fro, their pink spots but faintly showing in 

 the uncertain light, my spirit floated miles 

 and miles away to a pool that lay, calm and 

 serene, in the heart of the Northumberland 

 hills ; a pool whose clear waters were fed 

 by a rollicking stream brawling through 

 miles of green meadows, tangled thickets of 

 birch and cedar and somber clusters of pine 

 and hemlock. 



I felt sorry for the imprisoned trout that 

 afternoon in early May. They had an un- 

 healthy look; the backs and sides of some 

 were scarred and bruised by rough hand- 

 ling and transferring. I wondered if they 

 were thinking, as I was, of a cool stream, 

 now rippling over flat, smooth stones, now 

 plunging down a miniature precipice, then 

 rushing madly through tortuous windings 

 where green alders kissed the foam-flecked 

 water. 



The occupants of the other tanks in 

 the aquarium received scant attention from 

 me that afternoon. The muskalonge star- 

 ing with meaningless eyes through the glass, 

 the slimy, motionless catfish, the brilliant 

 tribe from Bermuda waters, the sportive, 

 water-spouting seal ; all were passed with a 

 hasty glance, for the woods and streams 

 were calling me and I would fain be with 

 them. 



The trees in the park were clad in bril- 

 liant green, the waters sparkled in the 

 sunlight, while overhead the skies were 

 hung with clouds that looked like the 

 fleecy drapery of a bride ; but Broadway 

 was pulsing with fretful life. Street hawk- 

 ers cried their wares with raucous voices, 

 trolley cars passed with clanging bells, and 

 overhead the elevated trains rumbled in- 

 cessantly. Dirt, dust and disorder were 

 everywhere this spring afternoon. On 

 other days I saw but the usual accompani- 

 ment of a busy street in a great city. 



The brook trout did it. 



The evening of the next day found me at 

 the station of a small town in Canada, and 

 15 minutes after my arrival I was shaking 

 hands with Adolphe, the worthy host of the 

 Royal and my erstwhile trusty hunting com- 

 panion. On Adolphe's head the seasons of 

 nearly 60 years rested lightly. He saw my 

 rod in its covering, the bulge of a fly-book 

 in my pocket, then, looking into my eager 

 face, he understood it all. "I got t'ree 

 dozen beauties yesterday," he said, "an' the 

 biggest she weigh one, 2 poun'." 



After a hearty meal we lighted our pipes, 



and throwing our fishing gear into a wait- 

 ing buckboard, started for the pond, with a 

 small tent firmly strapped to the back of the 

 vehicle. 



Night was falling, but soon a full moon 

 rolled above the horizon, flooding the land- 

 scape with light and bringing into bold re- 

 lief the objects around us. Bars rattled as 

 the cows were driven into pastures, ankle 

 deep in luxuriant grass. Lights were gleam- 

 ing in farmhouses by the roadside, where 

 weary laborers were resting after a long 

 day in the fields. A tired looking man 

 stood on a high stand by the side of a farm 

 gate, one hand holding a milk pail, the 

 other the uplifted cover of a tall, shining 

 can. He looked after us wistfully, seeing 

 our rods and baskets in the rig. 



Presently we labored up a steep hill, on 

 the other side of which lay the pond. 

 The moon, well up in the heavens, 

 shone on its polished surface so that 

 it resembled a gigantic mirror lying be- 

 tween the hills. Its edges were bordered 

 with white birch and cedar, and by listening 

 we could hear the water falling over the 

 edge of the dam. There was a sweet, lus- 

 cious smell of something undefinable in the 

 air. The earth seemed teeming with fresh- 

 ness. The home of my boyhood had been 

 a few miles from here, and I knew that in 

 a circle, the extreme edge of which in any 

 direction was not more than 5 miles from 

 the hill on which we stood, there nestled 

 7 such ponds. The sides of the hills and 

 the bottoms of the valleys were wet and 

 sappy with live springs. One could feel 

 their delicious coolness from afar. It was 

 literally the home of the brook trout. Many 

 a time, when a small boy, I had trudged 

 wearily homeward beneath the weight of a 

 mighty string of royal trout from these 

 ponds. 



Meanwhile, we descended the other side 

 of the hill, let down a snake fence, or a por- 

 tion of it, and drove through a pasture 

 field ; then, driving the length of a shady 

 lane we penetrated a fringe of cedars and 

 drew up at the grass bordered edge of the 

 pool. 



In a few minutes the horse was tied to a 

 tree, the tent in position, a brisk fire 

 sparkling in front of it, and, over the fire, 

 a spluttering pan of bacon, whose appetizing 

 odor, aided by the spicy, aromatic fra- 

 grance of the evergreens, made us raven- 

 ously hungry. 



Have you ever fished for trout by moon- 

 light when the shadows of logs and bushes 

 make deep, trouty looking holes, so that 



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