346 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[May 17, 1888. 



Address att comrmnicatiom to the Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 



SAM LOVEL'S CAMPS.-IX. 



PELATIAH had not been brought up in the woods to 

 be scared by owls, as he had more than once assured 

 himself as he stumbled along the darkening wood road, 

 half carrying, half trailing his big pickerel and bass, but 

 he fancied that their hollow hoots had never sounded so 

 like derisive laughter, "Ho! ho! ho! Ho! ho!— ho! ho!" 

 repeated by one another till the echoes joined in the 

 dolorous mirth. A whippoorwill, far away on the border 

 of the forest, was not insisting on the summary chastise- 

 ment of poor Will, but repeating this new culprit's name 

 with sharp reproachful reiteration, "Pel-a-tier, Pel-a-tier, 

 Pel-a-tier!' The trill of a toad rang in his ears like a 

 long-drawn jeer and the bellowing of the bullfrogs along 

 the Slang was shaped by his fancy into solemn words of 

 rebuke, advice and warning, "Didn't go hum! No, no! 

 Go huml Go hum! Don't du it agin, agin, never 

 agin!" Not a word of comfort for the poor fellow 

 among all these voices of the night, that followed him 

 out of the gloom of the woods, and looking up to 

 the sky, he saw the stars bUnking at him with unpity- 

 ing eyes. 



Shellhouse Mountain, which but yesterday he had de- 

 spised as a hillock that would be but a pimple on the face 

 of old Tater Hill, now uplifted on a vague foundation of 

 shadows and asserting itself as a bound of the visible 

 world, stood before him and frowned upon him like a 

 dark, scowling brow. The lights that dotted the high- 

 way went out one by one, as the farm folks went to bed 

 but a little later than their poultry. The living world 

 was forgetting him or cared nothing for him, the good- 

 for-nothing fellow who had broken his word, and Bose 

 was barking as if he scented a stranger. Yet it heartened 

 him a little when, prompted by his faint shadow, he 

 looked over his right shoulder and saw the thin crescent 

 of the new moon. In confirmation of this lucky sign, he 

 resently discovered a light shining from an upper win- 

 ow of the big white house, Lowizy's window, he was 

 sure, and perhaps, too anxious to sleep, she was waiting 

 for him. Yes, now he saw her form, a lovely silhouette 

 set in the frame of the casement. She was looking for 

 him, and he was only restrained from calling to her for 

 fear of arousing the household. He would have ventured 

 to whistle just once if Ms tremulous Hps had not refused 

 to pucker. Then the silhouette faded to a shadow and 

 the light was put out. As he entered the door-yard Bose 

 ceased barking and came whining and panting to wel- 

 come him, and assure him that he had at least one friend 

 there, and who, following close at his heels, superin- 

 tended the hanging of the precious fish in the cool, safe 

 corner of the woodshed. In those happy times when 

 tramps were unknown, farmhouse doors were never 

 fastened at night, and in summer were often left open, as 

 Friend Bartlett's kitchen door was now. So pulling off 

 his boots at the threshold, Pelatiah silently went in and 

 made his way to his bed in the kitchen chamber. 



The blithe chorus of the robins had not long been ring- 

 ing in the dewy freshness of the early morning, when 

 Pelatiah was astir, an horn before any other member of 

 the family. First he cleaned the fish, sojnicely that An- 

 toine could have found no fault, and then he drove up 

 the cows from the night pasture. He was milking his 

 second cow when Friend Bartlett appeared with his pail 

 and stool, and he was glad to see no shadow of displeas- 

 ure on his employer's kindly face, to detect no tone of 

 reproof in his cheery voice when he addressed him. 



"Well, Peltier, thee didn't get back quite so airly as 

 thee expected, did thee? I didn't hardly think thee 

 would, for when I was a boy an' uster go a fishin', if they 

 bit, I hated ter go off an' leave 'em, an' if they didn't bite, 

 I wanted ter wait till they did." 



"Oh, I'm awf'l sorry, Mr. Bartlett, an' shameder 'n I 

 c'n live, but I couldn't help it!" and he went on explain- 

 ing his mischance, forgetting to milk old Spot till she 

 thought he had done with her and moved on. When he 

 went to the cheese-room with two filled pails, by some 

 lucky chance, Lowizy was there, blushing like a June 

 rose and never handsomer than now. 



"O, Peltier!" she cried, coming toward him, radiant 

 with a pleasure that surely could not be feigned, and so 

 shone upon him that the last icy corner of his heart 

 melted at once. "O, Peltier! I'm dreffle glad ter see ye! 

 I was af eared 'at you was drownded an' I never slep' one 

 wink all night a thinkin' on 't!" 



"Would you ha' cared 'f I was drownded, Lowizy?" he 

 asked, trembling so that his unsteady hands poured half 

 the milk outside the strainer and a little on the floor. 



"Don't ye slop!" she said sharply, and then in a ten- 

 derer tone, "Don't ye think I would? But you never 

 thought o' me onct a-worryin' while you was hevin' high 

 jinks wi' your frien's!" 



"I swan tu man!" swore Pelatiah, as he set down his 

 last-emptied pail, "the' wa'n't a minute 'at I wa'n't 

 a-thinkin' 'baout you while I was a-fishin' an' when we 

 was hove away on a deserlate islan', an' a-wishin' 'at I 

 hedn't ben cross an' 'at I'd filled the wash biler for ye. 

 O, Lowizy, I was mean an' I'm sorry, an' I won't never 

 du so agin, an' I wish't you c'ld forgive me, but I don't 

 s'pose you ever can." 



She could not withhold forgiveness so humbly asked. 

 She rushed to him with upturned face and put her arms 

 astride his neck, one cream-bedaubed hand holding the 

 dripping skimmer, the other the half-filled basin, and as 

 the tins clashed behind his head he held her in his arms 

 and kissed her. 



"Peltier! Hey, Peltier! Bring back them pails!" Friend 

 Bartlett shouted from the cowyard gate. 



As the heavenward-soaring lark, pierced by the cruel 

 shot of the gunner, falls fluttering down to earth, so at 

 Friend Bartlett's impatient call Pelatiah dropped from 

 the rose-tinted clouds whereunto in delicious affright he 

 had been upborne, and went stumbling through the door- 

 yard knot-grass, while a still, small voice repeated Sam's 

 words, ' 'They'll fool a feller agin an' agin. " But his heart 

 whispered that this could not be fooling, and then, as he 

 sat down to his cow, sang inwardly to him this sweet 

 assurance, while the dancing streams of milk kept rhyth- 

 mic time to the song that no one else in all the wide ( 

 world could hear. > 



At breakfast, Rebecca Bartlett's placid face beamed 

 kindly upon him as she said: "Thank thee, for the nice 

 mess o' fish thee brought, Peltier, but I'm sorry thee had 

 ouch a tryin' time. We see it stormin' on the lake and 

 felt a good deal concerned about thee, thinkin' thee 

 might be out in a boat, and more so when thee didn't 

 come back, for we knew thee would if thee could." 



The gloom of night was gone, its dolorous voices 

 hushed. Sunlight flooded the earth and the soft air was 

 full of the joyous songs of birds. Could this world, now 

 so full of light and joy, and warm with love and kind- 

 ness, be the same that so lately frowned upon him? He 

 would never doubt the signs of the moon again, and 

 never Lowizy. 



When the next Sunday came, Pelatiah again declined 

 to follow Rebecca Bartlett's suggestion that he Bhould 

 attend Friend's meeting. Yet he heard something of the 

 simple service, for he was wandering with Lowizy along 

 the western rocky slopes of Shellhouae, where, hidden by 

 the leafy screen of the woodside, they could look forth 

 acroBS the pasture to the gray and brown shingled sides 

 of the old meeting house, through whose open doors and 

 windows came the voice of the preacher, whose spirit 

 was moved most audibly. To-day, certainly, the green 

 and flowery aisles of the woods were pleasariter than that 

 barren interior, and distance softened to tunefulness the 

 doleful cadence of the sermon. 



The "young come-ups," though a week older, had lost 

 nothing of their pungent sweetness. In fact he, who a 

 week ago had thought he never could touch one again, 

 now was sure they never tasted so good. If at times the 

 low song of the pines seemed to voice solemnly the words, 

 "They'll fool a feller agin an' agin," he shut his ears 

 to it, it was not sung for him. 



Rowland E. Robinson. 



THROUGH M1RAM1CHI WITH ROD 

 AND RIFLE— I. 



ON the morning of August 20, 188-, a morning that 

 broke glorious over the Nepissiquit Bay after two 

 days of mist and rain, I found myself bidding good-bye 

 to our well-fed host at the Wilbur Hotel, Bathurst, New 

 Brunswick. Seated on an express wagon piled up with 

 boxes and bags, and bristling with guns and rods, with 

 two Indians perched on precarious eminences of the mot- 

 ley pile, we waved our farewells. A pair of weedy colts, 

 better up to their work than their appearance promised, 

 bowled us swiftly over the. rough road, past farms and 

 lots of uncleared forest, a distance of some nine miles, 

 to the Papineau Falls on the Nepissiquit River, above 

 which our canoe White Heather awaits us. 



The Falls presented a very fine spectacle, the river 

 pouring itself over a ledge of granite, and where it has 

 receded leaving curious traces of water sculpture, such 

 as circular basins in the solid rock, with the round stones 

 still remaining, the gyrations of which had scooped the 

 "pot-holes," so called. Here we left our wagon, which 

 was to proceed along the rough lumber track on the 

 river's eastern bank to join us some sixteen miles above 

 at the Grand Falls, and this, therefore, will virtually be 

 the starting point of the expedition. 



The muscular arms of my two Indians, Joe and Peter, 

 swiftly forced the light canoe against the rapid current, 

 and having a permit to fish as I moved along, I willingly 

 rested them at the principal salmon pools. 



The first notable pool is Gordon Meadow Brook, named 

 in honor of a former Governor of New Brunswick, famed 

 for his sporting proclivities. Here the river is wide and 

 shallow, but the mouth of a tributary stream invariably 

 has a great fascination for the Salnionidas, and this proves 

 no exception. 



Fishing down some unpromising looking water, a cau- 

 tionary word from Joe as we approach the peculiar swirl 

 that marks a sunken rock, puts me on my guard, and not 

 in vain. As the black-doe fly swings slowly round about 

 a yard from the hidden rock, there is an upheaval of 

 water, dear to the angler's eye, and the back fin and pink 

 side of a large salmon have been revealed and quickly 

 curtained by the closing flood. A few moments to rest 

 him, and I send the fly inch by inch nearer to where he 

 broke, on the tip-toe of expectation. But no response. 

 Surely he did not get a taste of its quality. What can be 

 wrong? "Perhaps he has moved, sir," said Joe; and act- 

 ing on the suggestion, I lengthen my line and send a cast 

 several yards away to the other side of the ripple from 

 the rock. The response was immediate; with a sidelong 

 rush that showed his black back and gleaming sides, he 

 seized the fly, and instantly the line began to hiss from 

 the reel, while the rod was strained almost double. He 

 proved a very gamy fish of nearly sixteen pounds; and 

 evidently set a high estimate on the value of his life, for 

 he fought long and valiantly, and left no tactics untried 

 to rid himself of the toils. A series of high springs, a 

 straightaway rush at the pace of ninety miles an hour, 

 twisting over and over under water and jerking heavily, 

 striking savagely at the leader with his tail— all proved 

 of no avail. Admiration of his pluck almost made me 

 regret his fate; but Joe's relentless gaff quivered for a 

 moment only above the victim, then instantly, with un- 

 erring aim, the bright steel was buried in the shining 

 side, and the metallic body was laid, bright and beauti- 

 ful, on the bottom of the canoe. Before leaving this 

 pool I also killed a fine grilse of four pounds weight, 

 which died game, and two large sea trout of a combined 

 weight of five pounds. 



A beautiful pool just beyond, where some immense 

 masses of rocks overlook a lake-like expanse of the river, 

 is noted as the place where a gentleman of St. John en- 

 camped with his whole family after being burned out of 

 house and home by the great fire. As we passed a brood 

 of young shield ducks were diving and disporting in a 

 very lively fashion. 



Among the most noted camping grounds that we passed , 

 I must particularize the Middle Landing, where the river 

 contracts itself into a deep, narrow gorge, and then pours 

 itself into a placid pool, where grilse and salmon delight 

 to linger; the Big Chain, one of the most picturesque 

 parts of the lower river, where Lady McDonald spent a 

 few weeks of the previous summer; the portage path here 

 is like a bit of fairyland, so wondrously lovely is it with 

 sweet, flowering shrubs and hazel copses, with a bubbling 

 ice-cold spring and delieiously cool banks of ferns and 

 mosses. 



Little Chain is another beautiful pool, doubtless en- 

 deared to my memory because it proved a lucky one. 

 Here I killed another Balmon and raised a grilse, but 



could not charm him to make a second attempt at black- 

 doe or fairy. A bear had been reported as seen at -this 

 spot a few days previously in the act of taking a bath 

 and fishing. 



Toward evening we find ourselves no longer struggling 

 with a rushing current, but paddling apparently on the 

 bosom of a broad lake. Quickly traversing its expanse 

 we enter a gorge, where the water at first is still and 

 dark, and the precipitous rocks rise on either side to the 

 height of from one to two hundreed feet. The shades of 

 evening were already closing over the landscape, and 

 curtained as we were by the steep sheer sides of the cliffs, 

 the gloom grew intense. We knew that in these rent 

 rocks we witnessed the work of myriads of slow years, 

 during which the waters had been chiseling out this 

 passage. There was an awfulness about it difficult to 

 describe. Pushing through the gorge for nearly half a 

 mile, at a sudden turn I looked up and beheld confront- 

 ing us: 



The giant element 

 From rock to rock leap with delirious bound, 

 Crushing the cliffs beneath. 



I felt that seldom in my life had I witnessed anything 

 more impressive. We had passed through the galleries 

 of the sculptor, and here we stood, face to face, with the 

 power that, unwearied with untold centuries of labor, 

 was still at work carving the solid rock in the old fashion. 



A steep pathway led up from the ravine of the river 

 bed to a level plateau that formed a lovely camping 

 ground, and had evidently been very frequently used for 

 that purpose. Here we found our baggage awaiting us, 

 and in the fast waning light we cut our tent poles and 

 fire wood, and soon the air was fragrant with the steam- 

 ing tea and the juicy salmon steak broiling over the 

 glowing coals. The cataract was hidden from view by a 

 growth of birch, but its roar filled the air not unpleasantly. 



Still later in the evening shouts were heard from some 

 French half-breeds, who always make a noise as they 

 travel and are therefore poor guides, if any hunting is 

 aimed at. 



Two Boston gentlemen — one of whom, an old college 

 chum, I had last met quite as unexpectedly on Fleet 

 street, London, an antithesis as direct as conceivable to 

 this quiet scene of sylvan beauty — were making a canoe 

 voyage up the Nepissiquit, intending to portage to the 

 Tobique River, and descend by that stream to the St. 

 John. After a pleasant exchange of hospitalities they 

 pushed on to the pools of the Upper River, haunted by 

 the giant trout; while I concluded to remain here to do 

 another day's salmon fishing below the falls, and to enjoy 

 the quiet repose of the succeeding Sunday in this roman- 

 tic, spot, from the allurements of which 1 f ound it difficult 

 to tear myself away. 



It is difficult to decide which view of the falls is most 

 impressive, that from the canoe below, looking upward 

 at the seething torrent in the act of taking the delirious 

 bound, or that from the cliff above, where one looks down 

 upon the white and tortured waters, writhing between 

 the rocky barriers after they have made the fearful leap. 

 On the cliff above are carved the names of many, who 

 like us have with awe bent over the giddy summit, and 

 looked down upon the raging abyss immediately beneath. 

 Among them we recognize the names of officers in Her 

 Majesty's service, now perhaps in sun-scorched India or 

 Egypt, who, doubtless, when oppressed with the glare of 

 eastern skies, sometimes think tenderly and affection- 

 ately of such spots as these in our happier climes. 



Immediately below the falls is one of the most curious 

 salmon pools in the world. It is called the Falls' Pool. 

 The water is not very deep, and where the salmon lie it 

 is calm and quiet. The difficulties of playing the fly in 

 still-water are so well known to sportsmen that it would 

 seem impossible to take any fish here. But fortunately a 

 great fragment of rock, detached from the cliff, slopes 

 upward from the river's edge, and resting on a narrow 

 ledge overhangs the pool. Crawling upon this rock on 

 all-f ours and entirely concealed from view, the fisherman 

 can throw his fly lightly on the pool, and allowing it to 

 rest for one moment only on the eaJin surface, immed- 

 iately withdraws it, if not taken. One clumsy action will 

 entirely spoil the fisherman's chances, until a fresh fish 

 slips into the pool, which is continually happening. The 

 "old soldiers" seem to know the deception, and occasion- 

 ally turn on the side, and eye the feathery cheat in a side- 

 long mocking way that is very provoking. The only fish 

 hooked are those that have newly arrived in the pool. If 

 the throw proves successful, the moment that the fly 

 touches, like an arrow shot from the bow, a torpedo-like 

 shape darts diagonally toward it, and floundering for one 

 moment on the surface disappears below. The other fish 

 appear to eye the hooked one with amazement, but hardly 

 with alarm. They evidently fail to take in the situation, 

 and draw aside lazily when he comes among them, as if 

 to implore sympathy and aid. Seeing that there is no re- 

 lief here for him, the fish usually darts down stream, and 

 the Indians bringing up the canoe, the fisherman steps in 

 and gaffs his fish a few hundred yards down the river. 

 To fish this pool successfully a man must be endowed 

 with the qualities of patience, skill, tact and observation, 

 in fact a being as far removed as possible from the idiot 

 defined by Dr. Johnson as an angler. Such fish as are 

 here found are not to be caught by fools, they can only 

 be taken by men of acomplishments. 



Leaning over the edge of the protruding rock I counted 

 sixty salmon fanning the sands of the pool below, but I 

 was told that many years back it was a common thing to 

 count upward of two hundred in this pool. After vainly 

 essaying to scale the falls they slink back here to show 

 their disappointment by indulging in a lazy sulk. In vain 

 for them exist in the upper river above the falls most 

 lovely pools and boiling rapids which their restless in- 

 trepid spirits would have delighted to achieve. They 

 have come only some twenty miles from the river's 

 mouth. Could not a small grant of government money 

 be made to build a fish ladder that would enable the fish 

 to surmount this great natural obstacle and open to thera 

 the remaining sixty-five miles of river and the three 

 lakes, and furnish a journey from the sea worthy the 

 ambition of the most aspiring salmon? 



We can well believe the tales of canoe loads of salmon 

 speared here in old times when game wardens were a 

 thing unknown. The fish would be absolutely helpless 

 and the birch-bark flambeau would inevitably betray 

 almost every one to the relentless spear. Of course so 

 famous a pool is not without its salmon myths and tradi- 

 tions. The writer has been told on excellent authority 

 how one forty-five pounder committed suicide by leaping 



