A TROUT STREAM OF THE SIERRAS 



LEAVES FROM A CANADIAN 



PARADISE 



BY C. E. MILLS 



OW often we hear the 

 phrase, "the glories 

 that are no more, " 

 mingled with a deep- 

 sigh for but a glimpse 

 of the Forest of Arden, 

 or the " brooks that 

 make the meadows 

 green," or the enchanted 

 lakes of bygone days; 

 we listen and believe 

 till a kindly voice whis- 

 pers, go far to the North 

 in Canadian wilds, and find other places 

 as new and beautiful and enticing as nature 

 has ever revealed to her appreciative chil- 

 dren. Then we turn down the leaf of the 

 heat and turmoil of city life and open a 

 new leaf that has everything that is cool 

 and peaceful to the experience. 



About ninety miles to the north of 

 Toronto the Severn River winds its way 

 from Lakes Simcoe and Couchiching to 

 Sparrow Lake and then bends with many 

 placid turnings and picturesque waterfalls 

 for its journey of thirty miles to Georgian 

 Bay. Sparrow Lake, in the highlands of 

 Ontario, at the outskirts of Muskoka Lakes' 

 region, is only a small lake, two miles wide 



and five miles long, but it is fed from the 

 large lakes Simcoe and Couchiching. Its 

 bays are many, its waters are deep, its shores 

 are lined with rocks on the one hand and 

 grasses on the other, and thus from its 

 abundant resources it is the natural home 

 for fish and waterfowl. The lordly lunge 

 lurks among its weeds or off its rocks, the 

 gamy black bass dart here and there, find- 

 ing their home everywhere, and the wall- 

 eyed pike, or pickerel, as they are commonly 

 called, move in sluggish enjoyment along 

 the shores. And duck of many kinds find 

 their pasturage and home in the wild rice 

 that begins to ripen in August days. 



For eight weeks this last summer my wife, 

 who is my boon companion, and I fished 

 Sparrow Lake and explored the shores and 

 country round about. I remember one 

 fishing day, just one of many, when the 

 unexpected happens. We had been trolling 

 with the "Expert" wooden minnow, as was 

 our invariable custom, in and out of the 

 bays, hooking more weed possibly than fish. 

 It was so very calm that the fish were not 

 biting well, so we said, "Let's go back to 

 Tony's and take in the fishing about the 

 islands on our way." The first and second 

 islands were passed without a nibble. We 



