July 5, 1888.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



471 



enough to do a thing like that, let alone sense. It wasn't 

 so bad, was it? I think you will agree that these facta 

 had better not go any further. I showed ray gun to Jose 

 and told hini he was'my friend, and I loved' him, but if I 

 ever laid eyes on him' again I'd open fife, and if he ever 

 told another soul about that business ou the Rio Azul I'd 

 dig up his father's bones and make branding-iron handles 

 of them. That's all I know about the ghost. I don't 

 want to hear anything more about it. I've got a good 

 greyhound pup f think you would like to have. Yours 

 truly, Dixon." 



I have often asked Dixon for that greyhound pup, but 

 he said there wasn't money enough to buy him. In view 

 of such a peace offering what could one do? Nothing, 

 certainly, but to keep still about that ghost. 



E. Hough, 



Wtorita, Ran. 



MEMORIES OF THE MAST1GOUCHE. 

 ^T^HE cold north wind Shook the rain drops from the 

 -L cedars an we started out of the woods on our tramp of 

 six miles, while our carter was to follow over the steep 

 rocky wood road with our baggage. We had been fish- 

 ing tor a week on the beautiful Mastigouehe Lakes. Soon 

 the sun broke through the dark cloud's and rolled them up 

 while the wind gathered them together and pushed them 

 across the blue sky out of sight. On the divide beyond 

 St. Gabriel de Brandon lay before us the wide plain 

 where the St. Lawrence, hidden by the distance and 

 its wooded shores, hurried onward to the sea, where the 

 Beloiel Mountain lifted its head high above the level 

 land, the vanguard of a great host; behind us was the 

 beautiful Maskanonge, its surface broken up by the gusts 

 of wind that covered its bright waters with white 

 caps; before us the busy homes of men: behind us the 

 rocky turrrets — the gateway to the great wilderness be- 

 yond, shut in by its high mountains from the restless 

 world. As 1 write thase lines I think I see from my tent 

 door the sun breaking over the mountain, talcing by sur- 

 prise the little waifs of mist that have been dancing on 

 the lake; his warm rays lift them up, on bright clouds 

 they float away. The' water lies like a beautiful gem in 

 its setting of emeralds, reflecting the blue sky, until the 

 zephyrs with quick hands cut a thousand facets that 

 flash back the sunlight. 



A grand time we had; four of us beside our guides. 

 It was funny how our business habits stuck to us! Now 

 there was R n; he is a large dealer and manufac- 

 turer of stoves, ranges, etc.; whenever he killed a large 

 fish, instead of talking like the rest of us, and calling it 

 a big one, he would say it was a great (grate) trout; a 

 large lake was of wide range; if he broke his canoe, he 



would tell us, that his boat was stove. R y is a 



civil engineer; so accustomed to using a plummet that 

 he always put one on his line; this was perhaps the 

 reason why he always preferred to fish with bait. Lest 

 1 forget it let me say that the sun did the best job of 

 bronzing on him that I ever saw; he promised to let his 

 scalp lock grow, then we were to make him our Indian 

 guide. Your correspondent had not forgotten how when 

 a boy on third base he had been taught to catch on a fly. 

 P. left us early in our outings, I cannot think wliy 

 unless he was afraid he would be black-balled. Without 

 giving us any warning, one day he very soberly said he 

 thought he had a good, reason why a kingfisher hardly 

 ever missed his fish; we asked him to explain: has he 

 not got a first-class reel and a good click to it? Just then 

 a bird came hurrying along, and it sounded as if he was 

 paying out a hundred feet a second; " There, is not that 

 so? Yes, it is a good reason and the real reason too." Soon 

 after he left for his home; we would have forgiven all 

 this if he had staid. 



We entered the woods June 1, and found the ice had 

 been out but a few days, the cold water and chilly air 

 made poor fishing at first, but with each day it improved. 

 After a few days on the lake near the hotel we started 

 with our guides and tent up the river to a camping place 

 where a few seasons before we had spent pleasant days. 

 On a little point jutting into the lake, among the white 

 birches we stuck our stakes; across the water — almost 

 from its very shore — rose a steep high mountain, and 

 over its cedar-covered top hung the crescent moon; behind 

 us was a high rocky cliff, seamed and scarred where the 

 frost and storm had torn great blocks. Oh ! the sweet 

 quiet of the woods. No sound; save now and then as the 

 gentle wind brought us the roar of the rapids at the out- 

 let. We wrapped our blankets around us and on our 

 balsam beds rested. 



With the break of day we started to find an old portage 

 two miles up the river; our guides soon struck it; an 

 hour's carry, and we were in our birch barks on Lac 

 Rile; here we took over one hundred beautiful trout, 

 among them a two-pounder, a number that weighed 

 over one. As we floated in our canoes we thought from 

 the lay of the land " that there was a short cut to our 

 camp, so started two of our men to prospect; soon they 

 returned having cut a portage right to our tent's door, 

 not a half mile away. We talked of our experiences as 

 we sat around our camp fire; after a trout supper we lay 

 down to rest, the fragrance of the balsam filled our tent 

 and soothed us to sleep. The next morning we returned 

 to the same lake, but a high wind put an end to our 

 sport and we went back to camp. With the increasing 

 warmth black flies and mosquitoes commenced their 

 raids, and we concluded to beat a hasty retreat. Thus 

 pleasantly spent, these red-letter days were too quickly 

 counted off. We struck our tent, and over portage and 

 ruuning the rapids we came back to the hotel. On the 

 way I fished through Lake No. 2; it was but a short 

 carry to the river below the rapids, so I hurried on ahead 

 to fish a while in the pool where the tired waters would 

 seem to rest. I threw in a brown hackle. It scarcely 

 touched the water when a beautiful fish took it; so 

 quickly was it done that in the rapid deep stream I saw 

 nothing, felt only the tug. A quick strike and he waa 

 fast. Into the swift current he rushed and carried out 

 every inch of my one hundred and fifty feet of line; as it 

 spun out I thought with the end of the line would come 

 the end of my sport, but the springy bamboo gave him 

 no chance to tear away. He started across the pool, only 

 to find the withy rod still holding him; a ten minutes' 

 fight and I had him in my landing net — only a pound 

 and a quarter— but what he lacked in ounces he made up 

 in muscle. I leave it to you, my brother sportsman, to 

 fill in the details of this experience. You can recall how 

 under the dark alders, where the swift vexed waters 

 spread out into a broad still pool, flecked over with the 



white foam; quiet, oh! how still, save the soft murmur in 

 the woods and the chafing of the river against the rough 

 rocks, you laid him on the moss, and spoke from your 

 heart as you said " how 7 beautiful.'' Down the river we 

 floated: the steady stroke of the paddle moved our birch 

 barks down the hike and broke the smooth surface of the 

 water; the moon stretched a silver ribbon across the rip- 

 ples as we drew our canoes on the shore. 



Sabbath morning was the opening of a perfect day; the 

 blue sky hung over all; the hills were clothed with the 

 soft gray and green of the birches whose leaves were just 

 unfolding, here and there mottled by the darker verdure 

 of the cedars; rocky cliffs looked down into the clear 

 waters of the lake; even the winds were hushed— a day 

 of rest. 



A friend had told me of a touching story related to him 

 by his Indian guide the summer before. Pere was on 

 the shore that evening, and as the shadows began to fill 

 the deep gorges in the mountaius, I asked him to tell to 

 me the story. It was hard for him to talk in English, 

 but the very effort to make me understand lighted up his 

 swarthy face or softened his keen black eye as he told of 

 the birds that cheered him in his march or remembered 

 his watch by the little dead child. It added a wonderful 

 pathos to the tale. This was the. tale he told me: 



A Hudson's Bay man married a French girl in the set- 

 tlement, and brought her to his house in the great woods. 

 Her thoughts often flew over the hills that shut her in to 

 her far off home. Her little child died, and she was sad 

 to think of burying it in the forest, to be Left alone, with 

 no one to care for the little grave when they were called 

 to some other post. Pore's heart was touched as be 

 heard of the poor mother's sorrow, and he offered to 

 carry the dead child and bury it among her kindred. The 

 sick mother propped up in her bed, watches him through 

 her tears as, with the little coffin fastened with his tump 

 line on his back, his birch bark on his shoulders and rifle 

 in hand, be starts on his six days' journey through the 

 pathless woods ; the tangled woods soon hides him 

 from her sight, but all the way her prayers follow hbn. 

 Over the rugged mountains he hastens, down the swift 

 river and across the placid lakes he guides his canoe, and, 

 as with Elaine's dumb servitor, the dead is bis only bur- 

 den. Through the aisles of the forest wa-pe-pe, the bell 

 bird, tolled its notes like silver chimes, and the star- 

 flowers turned their soft eyes to look on him as lie passed 

 along. When the shadows of night crossed the hills and 

 settled down into the deep valleys he slung the little 

 coffin under the branches of the darkening pines, the 

 gentle wind rocked it and hummed a soft lullaby, the 

 stars kept watch while his sad heart and weary feet 

 rested. Several times in his dreams he saw beautiful 

 creatures steal out of the shadow of the woods and come 

 within the gleam of his camp fire to look on the face of 

 the little child; as he rested on the velvet moss, where 

 the sunshine came shifting through the leaves he seemed 

 to hear them call " Little one, awake." So the lonely days 

 passed; only a single Indian trapper had he met; several 

 bears and caribou crossed his path, but his rifie was not 

 unslung; no noise, hardly the snapping of a twig, broke 

 the silence of his march with tire dead. At the settle- 

 ment he laid his burden down in a new made grave, then 

 hastened back to tell the mother where her little babe 

 was sleeping, and that friends would keep ihe little one 

 from being lonely. " That is all, Mr. R. Good night!" 

 and Pere was gone. Spicewood. 



THE SQUATOOK LAKES. 



HAVING been a regular reader of the Forest and 

 Stream from the first number issued (Aug. 14, 1873) 

 to the present time, I have annually, upon the approach 

 of the open season for trout, scanned its columns for such 

 information as would aid me in determining where I 

 should make my summer fishing trip. By information I 

 do not mean mere description, for the books on angling 

 and the sporting periodicals abound with descriptions of 

 crystal lakes, limpid and rippling waters, deep and 

 placid pools, speckled beauties, etc., etc.; but such infor- 

 mation as a practical fisherman desires and seeks before 

 Starting or even concluding upon the locality of his out- 

 ing. While frequently criticising the Forest and Stream 

 for its dearth, of late years, of such information, I have 

 often, at the same time, censured myself for not contrib- 

 uting something of that which I looked for from others; 

 for I have for years spent my summer vacations in the 

 wilderness, fishing some stream or lake for trout. To 

 make some amends for my shortcomings, and with the 

 hope also that I may benefit my fellow fishermen and ex- 

 cite in them feelings of reciprocity, I purpose giving an 

 account of a trip I made to the Squatook (sometimes 

 spelled Squatteck) Lakes in the summer of 1885, and I 

 give it in the shape of a daily itinerary from the diary 

 which I always keep of my annual fishing excursions. 



The Squatook Lakes, four in number, are located in 

 the county of Temisconata, Province of Quebec, and are 

 really the source of the Madawaska, a branch of the 

 River St. John, into which it flows at Edmundston, New 

 Brunswick. 



Our party, three in number, left Philadelphia on Tues- 

 day, Aug. 18, at 3:55 P. M. via Bound Brook for New 

 York, and the latter place at 10:30 P. M. for Boston via 

 Springfield. 



Wednesday, Aug. 19.— Arrived in Boston at 6:25 A. M., 

 drove directly to S. S. State of Maine, breakfasted on 

 board and sailed at 8:30 A. M., reached Portland, Me., 

 about 4 P. M., spent an hour viewing the city and sailed 

 at 5 P. M. Sea smooth and weather clear and de- 

 lightful. 



Thursday, Aug. 20.— At 6 A. M. were off Campobello 

 Island and at 7 A. M. arrived at Eastport, Me. Went 

 ashore and inspected the sardine factories, wdrere small 

 herring, by use of cotton seed oil and French labels, are 

 converted into sardines. Sailed at 8:45 A. M. The Nar- 

 rows off Eastport were filled with hundreds of little fish- 

 ing smacks and presented quite a lively and picturesque 

 scene. Temperature at 12 M. in the Bay of Funday, 64°. 

 Reached St. John, N, B,, at 12:45 P.'M., and left on 

 steamboat David Weston at 5 P. M. for Fredricton, where 

 we arrived at 11:45 P. M. Weather pleasant but cool, 

 thermometer at 6 P. M. on river 64°. 



Friday, Aug. 21.— Stopped last night at the Queen's, a 

 comfortable hotel, with fair table. At 7:30 A. M. took 

 train at Gibson, opposite Fredricton, and arrived at New- 

 burg Junction, where we dined, at 11 A. M. Rode most 

 of the way on rear platform of rear car, enjoying the 

 beautiful mountain scenery. The rest of the journey to 



Edmundston, which was reached at 6 P. M., was exceed- 

 ingly fatiguing owing to slow train, poor cars and rough 

 road bed. At Edmundston we were met by Mr. T. M. 

 Richards (who keeps store there and with whom we had 

 corresponded about guides, canoes, provisions, etc.,) with 

 teams to transport us and our baggage across the Mada- 

 waska River to the village. The bridge having been 

 swept away by the ice the previous winter, we crossed 

 the river by rope feriy on a flat boat and stopped at 

 Adarns House, kept by an old Scotchman named Adams. 

 In the evening visited Mi*. Richardi's store, made up the 

 order for provisions and prepared for an early start on 

 the following morning. 



Saturday, Aug. 22. — Had heavy thunder gust last night , 

 and was still raining when we arose this morning, delay- 

 ing our departure. The guides Mr. Richards had engaged 

 for us were on hand early; they were French Canadians, 

 representing three generations of the same family, Joseph 

 Martin, aged 79 years; Florent Martin, 22 years; Joseph 

 Martin, Jr., 18 years. Packing all our traps and provis- 

 ions on a large wagon with a pair of stout horses, and 

 mounting on the load ourselves with Mr. Richards and 

 Uncle Joe, as our oldest guide was familiarly called, we 

 started at 9:30 A. M. for Griffin's portage, fifteen miles 

 up the Madawaska, while the other guides, with Mr. 

 Richard s's driver, had to pole the three piroges or dug- 

 outs against a rapid current to the same destination. The 

 road we traveled followed the course of the river, was 

 smooth, well drained, comparatively level and in excellent 

 condition, and is known as the Grand Portage, extending 

 from Edmundston to Riviere du Loup on the St. Lawrence 

 River, a distance of seventy-nine miles. 



At 1 P. M. we reached Griffin's, and after diningpitched 

 our tents, knowing that the strong head wind prevailing, 

 together with the current, would so delay our other guides 

 that the portage could not be made that evening. At 5 

 P. M. the river party arrived, wet, tired and hungry. In 

 the meantime we had made all necessary arrangements 

 with Mr. Griffin for the transportation of our canoes and 

 luggage, etc., up the carry early next morning. 



Sunday, Aug. 23.— At 6 A. M. started down stream for 

 west end of portage and across the same at 6:30, reaching 

 Mud Lake at 10:30 A. M.. The portage is four and a half 

 miles long, but easy and well marked, and our piroges 

 and luggage were hauled over on three rough sleds made 

 the day previous, with a horse to each. At 12 M. , after 

 dining we started down Mud Lake, which is one mile 

 and shallow; thence down Beardsley Brook, which was 

 so low that about half the time we were in the water 

 assisting to push and lift the piroges over shallow and 

 rocky places, and as the day was clear and warm and we 

 fresh we found it hard work. The brook is seven miles 

 long and empties into the Squatook River. This river is 

 quite deep and tortuous, and from the mouth of the brook 

 to Squatook Lake No. 4 the distance is six miles, which 

 we made without trouble and expeditiously, and went 

 into camp at the head of the lake, wet, tired, cold and 

 hungry at 6 P. M. 



Monday, Aug. 24.— Our camp was situated in a delight- 

 ful cove, on dry ground, well wooded, with pebbly beach 

 sloping gradually down to the water. The lake, which 

 is nine miles long and from one to two miles wide and 

 surrounded by mountains, reminds me of Brassua Lake 

 in Maine, but is far more picturesque. Close to our 

 camp was the mouth of the river which we fished both 

 morning and evening, taking an abundance of trout, but 

 no large ones — the largest weighed fibs. A stiff north- 

 west gale drove us into camp early and compelled us to 

 erect a wind break of evergreens to make it comfortable. 



Tuesday, Aug. 25. — The gale continued all night and 

 throughout to-day, making it impossible to fish and dan- 

 gerous on the lake, which was covered with white caps; 

 so we remained in camp and close to the fire, the ther- 

 mometer registering at 6 A.. M. 47" and at 6 P. M. 55°. 



Wednesday, Aug. 26.— Started down the lake at 6 A. 

 M. , but the wind soon commenced to blow strong from 

 the north, and it was cold and showery all day. The lake 

 was so rough that we had to proceed cautiously, sneaking 

 from point to point, and did not reach the lower end or 

 outlet until about 3 P. M. Here we found an excellent 

 and comfortable camping site, where we pitched our 

 tents, and in the evening tried the fishing at the outlet, 

 but the trout were scarce and the chub lai'ge, plentiful 

 and annoying. 



Thursday, Aug. 27. — At 7 A. M. started cl©wn stream, 

 reaching Squatook Lake No. 3 at 2 P. M. ; distance, ten 

 miles. The river is a succession of rapids, which we en- 

 joyed shooting. Caught quite a number of trout on the 

 way down; the largest, 1 Jibs., was taken in a beautiful 

 deep pool. The wind still continued to blow a perfect 

 gale from the north, and we found the lake very rough. 

 It was beastly weather for fishing; the fish would not rise, 

 and it was with the greatest difficulty we could manage 

 our line. This lake is three miles in length, and on its 

 eastern shore is Sugar Loaf Mountain, a tall peak jutting 

 out close to the shore. From its top the view is said to 

 be extensive and beautiful. We camped at the foot of this 

 mountain, close by a brook, at the mouth of which I took 

 in less than an hour half a dozen trout that weighed 

 l^lbs. each. 



Friday, Aug. 28. — Taking an early start we ran down the 

 thoroughfare one and a half miles into Squatook Lake No. 

 2, through it, one mile in length, and a short thoroughfare 

 into Squatook Lake No. 1, through it, four miles in 

 length, and down the Tuladi River (its outlet) two miles 

 to Horton's Branch and up this branch two miles to an 

 old log jam, about one-fourth mile in length and known 

 as the Big Jam. Finding we could not get our piroges 

 around this jam without great labor and loss of much 

 time, owing to great washouts made the previous spring, 

 we determined after dinner to return, for little or nothing- 

 could be done alone with the fly without canoes. With 

 bait, however, by dropping it between the logs, any num- 

 ber of fine fish could be taken. 



Upon reaching the Tuladi River again, we ran down it 

 six miles and went into camp, it being too late to make 

 Tuladi Lake No. 2, which was still three miles distant. 

 Our camp, though on high ground, was damp and amid 

 ferns four feet high; was badly located, uncomfortable, 

 and flies and mosquitoes were abundant and annoying. 



Saturday, Aug. 29.— Broke camp at an early hour— glad 

 to leave— paddled down to and across Tuladi Lake No. 2 

 through the thoroughfare and across Tuladi Lake No, 1 

 to its outlet and went into camp again at 10:30 A. M. 

 Our camp was located about one mile above the Tuladi 

 Falls and though on high ground was without shade or 



