ADVENTURES AND MISADVENTURES OF A SALMON-ANGLER 527 



it was necessary to go ashore after gaffing 

 each, placing them in the shade of a large 

 rock. Now, in fishing that particular run 

 you have to wade out quite a long way, so 

 that while fishing I was, perhaps, fifty yards 

 from where I had left the grilse. Moreover, 

 there was no reason why I should keep my 

 eye upon them, so that it was not until the 

 last had been made and shore regained that 

 I became aware that the fish were gone. 

 And fresh bear tracks in the wet sand told 

 who had robbed me. 



That fellow was a bit hungry, or he never 

 would have had the cheek to walk off with 

 two salmon, in plain view of the man who 

 caught them. If Luke and John are yet 

 alive — as I have every reason to believe — it 

 is not likely they have forgotten my woe- 

 begone appearance when I returned to tell 

 them of bruin's outrageous conduct. He 

 might at least have left me one. 



When salmon -fishing, the Canadian 

 angler generally has to camp out. Some 

 might consider this a drawback, but most of 

 us do not. There is a charm about camp 

 life that has always appealed to me very 

 strongly. I have fished for salmon in Nor- 

 way and had to sleep in a saeter, where the 

 good man and his family and the farm hands 

 divided up the space with sundry goats and 

 fowls — an experience one would not care to 

 repeat. Far better is the Canadian way. 

 On this continent, unless a member of some 

 club, one generally pitches camp alongside 

 a pool, and leads a joyful, careless, open-air 

 existence throughout the whole all-too-short 

 fishing season. 



In addition to the charm of the woods one 

 has the companionship of the dusky sons of 

 the forest, or else of the almost equally 

 dusky and quite as dirty halfbreeds. 

 These untutored individuals are capable of 

 affording much amusement to an observing 

 man. It is true they have their weaknesses; 

 for instance, a newly arrived henchman, 

 who has the keen edge on his appetite, can 

 sometimes stow away the major portion of a 

 large ham at a single sitting, and, as regards 

 many of them, the truth is handled some- 

 what carelessly. Yet, taken all in all, they 

 are a delightful contrast to the conventional, 

 frock-coated, enamel-leathered man of the 

 city. Those of you who have camped with 

 them for weeks, nay, even months at a time, 



know that they are nothing but great, 

 powerful, grown-up children. 



There was never an Indian in my service 

 yet that did not believe in ghosts. They 

 might not own to it, but deep down in their 

 natures it was there. As an instance: I 

 recall one dark, sultry night by a certain 

 salmon-stream, when my sole companions 

 were two full-blooded Abenaki Indians. 

 Our camp was pitched in a level but uncom- 

 monly dark pine grove. The two little tents 

 reflected the bright glare of the camp-fire, 

 but outside its small circle of light the shad- 

 ows were dark as those of Erebus. After 

 supper the talk drifted into a discussion of 

 the supernatural. The Indians told me of a 

 fabled stream, known to them as Tomogo- 

 nops, which they said was not a desirable 

 place to find oneself camped alongside, 

 especially if alone. It seems that many 

 Indian hunters have heard strange sounds 

 along this river. Listening, in the stillness 

 of a summer's night, after the sun has set 

 and even the night-hawks have retired to 

 rest, the solitary camper hears the sound as 

 of men propelling a canoe against the swift 

 current. He can catch the rhythm of the 

 oncoming progress. The spectral canoemen 

 fleet their poles in the orthodox manner, and 

 with the long, tireless sweep of the hardened 

 voyageur. You may even hear the bubble 

 of the current against the bow. Then, the 

 thing draws abreast of the shivering 

 watcher. He seems to hear the grating of 

 the stem upon the gravel; two poles are, 

 seemingly, thrown ashore, and then the calm 

 of the wilderness sinks over everything and 

 the fisherman realizes that it is no canoe 

 poled by human hands that he has heard. 



This was the yarn that the Indians told 

 me. In return I laid myself out to give them 

 the most bloodcurdling stories that had 

 been told me in childhood by a misguided 

 and garrulous nurse who was herself a 

 believer in gnomes, hobgoblins and fairies. 



By and by those Indians shook like 

 poplar leaves in a breeze and became so 

 jumpy that they wouldn't leave the light of 

 the camp-fire, even to get a drink of cold 

 water before turning in, and I believe they 

 shivered and shook half through the night, 

 for fear Glooscap or some malignant 

 windigo should carry them off before the 

 breaking of the dawn. 



