534 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Deo. 22, 1894. 
the recesses of the holes where the large fish lay in wait 
for their food to come to them. The grayling does not 
rush out and seize the bait greedily, like the trout, but 
quietly sucks it in. You see your line stop, wait an in- 
stant, then strike and pull in a fish. Not much fun about 
that kind of fishing, and I soon understood why Arnold 
sighed when he said that he had become reduced to the 
necessity of bait-fishing. My friend made no attempt to 
play his fish, his stout rod enabling him to lead them 
directly ashore in spite of their struggles. Neither of us 
used a landing net, for the reason that its use is almost 
impossible on such a stream; at best, it is very incon- 
venient. When the fish has been safely netted both 
hands are needed to detach the hook and transfer it to 
the creel. While doing this one is in danger of being 
swept off his feet by the strong current, and should the 
rod be dropped it would be whirled away and perhaps 
lost. Since, then, it is necessary to go ashore to remove 
the fish from the net, why bother with the thing at all? 
We always managed to find some place near the bank 
where we could lead the fish upon the sand, and seldom 
lost one. The water was very cold, so cold that I was 
glad to seek a sunny spot very often, and turning down 
my wading pants sit there until my chilled limbs became 
warm again. One day later on I saw a couple of fellows 
wading the creek with nothing on but their boots and 
overalls, and I came to the conclusion that they must 
have constitutions like that of a polar bear. 
Once, on rounding a bend, Arnold held up his hand to 
me as a signal for caution. On reaching his side I saw a 
family of deer standing in the water a short distance 
below. We watched the pretty creatures for some 
minutes — there were three, a buck, doe and fawn — when 
a sudden puff of wind carried our scent to them and they 
fled into the woods, uttering snortB of alarm as they went. 
After fishing three hours we had filled our baskets and 
reluctantly returned to camp. Eyan and Wisson came 
in an hour later, when we counted and weighed our 
several catches, the results being as follows: 
Arnold, 18 fish, weight 16}41bs. Ryan, 5 fish, weight 31bs. 
Wesson, 15 fish, weight lSj^lbs. The writer, 24 fish, weight 161bs. 
I was the only one who had used the fly and my fish 
averaged considerably less than those taken with bait, as 
the figures show. I think that I returned to the water 
more fish than I kept. Eyan's comparatively poor show- 
ing was explained by Wesson, who said that he was 
chasing butterflies and hunting for bugs most of the time. 
The good sport enjoyed that first morning having satis- 
fied the keen edge of our desire for fishing, it was decided 
that thereafter only two should go out at one time, the 
other two to take charge of camp affairs for the day. 
I afterward found that it was not always an easy 
matter to fill my basket. There were days when the 
grayling would not take the fly at all, or would play leap 
frog over it all day long. There were other days when 
Arnold's choicest worms had no attractions for them, and 
at times neither bait nor fly had any success. One might 
fill his basket in an hour or work hard all day for a scanty 
mess. The reason for their caprices was entirely beyond 
our comprehension. 
Eyan thought that it was pure cussedness, and it did 
look like it. Arnold sat on a log one morning and took 
from a big pool just below the bridge nine fish which 
weighed lllbs. , with bait. Coming in with them and 
telling me about it, I went down and took out eight more, 
which weighed a little over 61bs. , with the fly. 
I seldom failed to get fish about sundown, using at that 
time a little larger fly than during the day. The grayling 
is the Quaker among fishes, and his taste runs to quiet 
colors. Gaudy flies are useless with him. On very bright 
days when no breeze ruffled the water I found a very 
small dark fly to be the best, the blue-bottle being par- 
ticularly killing. 
The best fish taken during our stay yielded to Arnold's 
bait and weighed a trifle over ljlbs. This, he said, was 
the largest one that he had ever taken in years of gray- 
ling fishing, and he characterized as highly improbable 
all stories of grayling being caught that weighed 21bs. 
and over. My first fish was my best, not counting as first 
the little one which I threw over my head. 
The time flew by, with never a dull minute to mark its 
flight, and the day of departure was at hand almost 
before we knew it. With feelings of regret we broke 
camp, reloaded our wagon and took the homeward track, 
carrying with us a goodly store of fish safely packed in 
ice. Eefreshed by their week of rest, Earus and Maud S. 
went along at a much better clip than they had shown on 
the going trip. The day was cloudy and we suffered 
from no other discomfort than the dust, reaching our 
destination without incident. The next morning I bade 
my friends farewell and departed for home, sped on my 
way with many hearty wishes for my speedy return for 
another fishing bout. 
In conclusion, let me say to the angler who has not as 
yet cast his maiden fly for grayling, carpe diem! The 
close of the present century will find it practically extinct 
in all the more accessible streams. 
Frank Asa Mitchell. 
A Strange Breed of Cats. 
The tall, lank form of "Uncle Caleb" on a sand spit 
"throwing" for bluefish surrounded by a half score of his 
favorite tabbies, was and may be still for aught we 
know, one of the features of Barnegat Point. ' 'Uncle 
Caleb's" one weakness was a passion for cats. He had, 
when the writer had the privilege of visiting him, thir- 
teen beautiful tabbies, white, black, spotted and maltese, 
and all peculiar in one respect — they had no tails. In a 
few the caudal appendage was only foreshortened, but 
the majority were absolutely tailless. "Uncle Caleb" 
gave a very simple explanation of this peculiarity. 
In the Isle of Man, as is well known, the cats have no 
tails. One stormy night several years ago, it chanced 
that an English vessel having a Manx cat on board went 
to pieces off Barnegat. Most of her crew were drowned, 
but this cat with his nine lives made his way through 
the breakers and then dragged himself to "Uncle Caleb s" 
cottage, where he was comforted with warm milk and a 
plate of raw fish. The old patriarch was living at the 
time of our visit and ruled over a family of twelve tab- 
bies, very much like their father in the matter of tails. 
"Uncle Caleb" is very fond of exhibiting his pets to 
visitors and of showing off their tricks and manners. 
They followed him about, came to his call, leaped 
through a hoop made of his curved arms, and performed 
a variety of strange tricks and antics when commanded. 
Uncle John. 
CANADIAN FISHING. 
Past and Present. 
The "old stager" period in any profession affords sub- 
ject for serious reflection. In "looking backward," how- 
ever, to one's first salmon, one's largest trout, vistas of 
summer holidays in Acadian forest, or on Canadian river 
or lake, serve to brighten the gloomiest autumnal day. It 
is such a "looking backward" that I now propose. 
The distance of time is so great and the change of sur- 
roundings so marked, I care not to enter too minutely into 
detail as to time. The place selected as a happy hunting 
ground is the banks of the Eestigouche Eiver, New Bruns- 
wick, Canada, a Micmac canoe the means of transit on 
that river and on the St. Johns Eiver from the Gulf of St. 
Lawrence to the Bay of Fundy. 
As regards means of locomotion in this part of Canada, 
the contrast between past and present is most striking. 
Then (in my early day) the stage wagon, over rough and 
hastily constructed roads, or small and inefficient steam- 
boats, along the coast line or on the principal rivers — the 
St. John and Miramichi — were the only means of transit. 
Now the country is a network of railways, and a well- 
equipped Pullman car conveys the luxurious traveler to 
every man's door. The I. C. E. and Grand Trunk railways 
from Halifax to Quebec westward and the C. P. E. from 
the Atlantic to the Pacific, vie with each other in 
efficiency. 
Alas! the contrast between past and present, as regards 
sport, is not so pleasant a picture. Then you fished for 
salmon and trout or stalked the wily caribou without 
leave or license, at your own sweet will, your only mentor 
and guide being the Micmac or Milecete "Indian. Now a 
combine or syndicate of Canadian or United States mer- 
chant princes has almost the monopoly of river, lake and 
stream. At each picturesque spot or at each turn of river, 
lake and stream, a club house, with its "modern improve- 
ments" — so-called — is to be found, until salmon and trout 
have been improved out of the waters, or placed out of 
reach of the "poor and proud" — so that men with money 
— luxury with lucre — have, as a rule, taken the place of 
fish and fishing. 
Happily there still remain certain parts of this favored 
land, where rod and gun have seldom found their way, 
and where few but the red man's feet have trod. The 
watershed of New Brunswick, the best hunting grounds 
of the maritime provinces of Canada, geographically, 
though on small scale, is not unlike the Great Divide of 
the United States. Geographically from a sportsman's 
point of view it is of intense interest. 
Here, from some inland lake or highland spring the 
great rivers of this well watered province, Eestigouche, 
Nepiseguit, Tobique and Miramichi, find their source. 
Here, moose and caribou reign supreme. Here, in cool 
springs on many a summer aay, monster trout find 
seclusion and refreshment; and here, removed from 
"The dreary sounds of crowded earth. 
The cries of camp or town," 
the antidote for the "fever called living" is found. 
To the source of one of these grand rivers, the Eesti- 
gouche, two old soldiers and a recruit proceeded on a 
summer holiday in the now distant past. We secured 
six Micmac Indians, with three canoes. Their canoes 
differ from the Milecete canoes in being larger and 
stronger and heavier, and rounded at bow and stern, 
instead of being pointed as are the Milecete canoes. 
In those days you had but to lift your finger and the 
whole tribe of Indians of the Campbell ton wigwam en- 
campment were at your disposal as guides for an expe- 
dition such as this, and a trifle per diem sufficed for pay- 
ment. Now an over-civilized half-breed, whose "educa- 
tion" has not been neglected in the common school or the 
village grog shop, will only serve you with pole or 
paddle at an exorbitant amount per day. 
At last our canoes, well filled with supplies for the 
voyage, await us at that most picturesque spot, where 
the Metapedia joins the Eestigouche Eiver. Good-bye is 
said to civilization and to our friends, the Frasers at the 
then "last house," where we had received genuine hos- 
pitality from the "lord of the soil." We start! Who can 
adequately describe the birch bark canoe as a mode of 
progression? The Earl of Dunraven has eloquently and 
well attempted it in the following words: "Among all the 
modes of progression hitherto invented by restless men, 
there is not one that can compare in respect to comfort 
and luxury with traveling in a birch bark cane. It is the 
poetry of progression. Along the bottom of the boat are 
laid blankets and bedding, a piece of wood is sloped 
against the middle thwart, affording a delicious support 
to the back; and indolently you sit or lie on the most de- 
licious of couches, and are propelled at a rapid rate over 
the smooth surface of the lake, or down the swift current 
of some stream. 
"Dreamingiy you lie, lazily looking at the pine-covered 
shores, you wander into dreamland, to awake presently 
and find yourself sweeping round the curve of some 
majestic river whose shores are blazing with the rich 
crimson, brown and gold of the maple and other hard- 
wood trees in autumn dress. 
"Presently the current quickens; the canoe shakes and 
quivers through all its fibres, leaping at every stroke of 
crew. Before you is a seething mass of foam, its whiteness 
broken in by horrid black rocks, one touch againt whose 
ragged sides would rip the canoe into tatters, and hurl 
you into eternity. Your ears are full of the roars of the 
water; waves leap up in all directions as the river, mad- 
dened at obstruction, hurls itself through some narrow 
gorge. The canoe seems to pitch headlong into space. 
After the first plunge you are in a bewildering whirl of 
water — the shore seems to fly past you — crash 1 you are 
right on the rock and (I don't care who you are) you will 
feel your heart jump into your mouth; another stroke or 
two, another plunge forward, and you pitch headlong 
down the final leap." 
We had but to use our own judgment as to the salmon 
pools to fish or let alone; where to camp or where to 
secure the easily caught splendid trout was a mere matter 
of choice. 
We had proceeded but a few miles, each white man of 
the party reclining midships in his canoe, as already 
described, while his two red men at bow and stern, with 
unfailing skill, poled up rapids, or through long stretches 
of still water — when my steersman was taken suddenly 
ill. There was no "medicine man" among us. We 
could but resort to the tactics of the barber in southern 
Spain— bleed freely— or to the more agreeable treatment, 
administer the cup that cheers. All in vain. By sign 
only or by feeble whisper to his comrade we found that 
the sick man wished to be placed on a "catamaran" or 
raft, and with the minimum of rations, launched on the 
stream, allowed to drift to his wigwam on the river bank. 
With some misgivings we thus left him to his fate, and 
long afterward, were glad to learn of his safe arrival at 
his home, and his recovery from illness. 
It was thus brought about that I had to take the steers- 
man's place with pole and paddle — I a novice in the 
steerman's art. No longer could I lie dreamingly in the 
canoe. No longer could I find time for poetry. I must 
resort to prosaic action. I must "work my passage." 
Soon, however, I became fairly proficient in the art, and 
thoroughly enjoyed the health-giving exercise. 
To point out the number and weight of salmon and 
trout caught on any particular day, or to refer to color 
and size of fly, or length or weight of rod, skill or want 
of skill of angler, would give but a faint idea of the pleas- 
ures of such a trip as this; each turn of the river affords 
fresh and varied material for the artist, the geologist, the 
lover of the flora and fauna; and at each halt for the mid- 
day meal or at the evening camp ground we had fishing 
to our heart's content, and the artists of the party too soon 
" found their sketch books filled with tid-bits from the 
ever-changing landscape, mountain and river, hill and 
dale and forest; and whatever our individual tastes, we 
had abundant opportunity to gratify them. 
The following may be mentioned as among the best 
fishing and camping grounds: Mouths of Metapedia, 
Upsalquitch, Patapedia and Kegwick. There is good 
salmon fishing on all these rivers, while at the outlet of 
every brook, with its cool water, large trout are found. 
The hours in camp each night passed all too quickly, 
with story from many a camp and many a hunting field 
in more than one quarter of the globe, the novice of the 
party, like the redskins, being a good listener, till one by 
one we sought the spruce bough couch. 
We are, all this while, passing pleasantly and profitably 
up the Grand Eestigouche Eiver. We had. not met man, 
woman nor child en route. The time was early in Sep- 
tember when autumnal leaves were in their brightest 
colors. A flock of flappers had for several days been 
driven on in our front, as we passed up the river, and 
this flock had been daily increasing in number of birds. 
One morning we were having our swim in the river, 
when the peculiar noise of a canoeman's pole was heard 
up stream; soon the voyager had disturbed the flock of 
flappers, and in an instant we were surrounded by count- 
less frightened birds. We had but time to seize our guns, 
and in our lightest "marching order," a battue commenced 
such as was never seen or heard in a "hot corner" in 
pleasant shooting season. When the astonished canoe- 
man appeared on the scene (he naturally imagined that 
he had suddenly come upon a wild tribe of white-skins), 
we had laid out a long string of fine fat flappers on the 
river bank. I need only add that on that day our dinner 
was not limited to the usual fare of trout and salmon, 
pork and partridge. 
The advantages of around trip such as this we are taking 
become more apparent as we approach the source of some 
great river. The life of luxury in a club house, to which 
we have already referred, at no great distance from the 
river mouth, with perhaps one or two salmon pools only 
at your disposal, which can only be fished in the early 
morning or in the evening, is a life of comparative idle- 
ness, and can scarcely be called "having a good time" in 
the best sense. 
On the other hand, when on a round trip, changing 
camp daily, there is varied sport, varied picturesqueness, 
and each day brings fresh enjoyment. This was our ex- 
perience, and all too soon we arrived at "the portage." 
It must be said that the approach to the portage, after 
you leave the main Eestigouche Eiver and enter the 
Wagan stream, is by no means easy and attractive; the 
stream is narrow and overhung with alder bushes; we 
had frequently to resort to the ax to chop out bushes to 
allow the canoes to pass up stream. The longest journey, 
however, comes to an end, and there was a shout from 
the leading bowman, "Here we are! The portage!" Here 
fresh difficulties met the novice. He found that it was 
not sufficient to become proficient in the art of wielding 
pole and paddle. Here he had to "take up his boat and 
walk" — walk for three miles — a tortuous passage from 
source of Wagan to that of Wagancis, there to embark 
en route for Grand and St. John rivers to Bay of Fundy, 
a round trip of some hundred miles. 
That three-mile portage has yet to be done. A Micmac 
canoe is no light weight. I lift the thing on my shoulders; 
I move on a few paces, oh, how slowly! I stop; I place it 
gently on the ground, oh, how gently! I sit down only 
to admire its structure, its proportions — its weight is none 
the less — and this weight has to be borne on unwilling 
shoulders, over three miles of road, so-called. Eoads 
indeed! We only say "rocks, knolls and mounds con- 
fusedly hurled," with slush and mud and dismal swamps. 
Would that I could reduce the weight of this graceful 
Micmac canoe! Would that I could balance it on my 
shoulders without regard to the picturesque, only think- 
ing of physical endurance. 
My pride at acquiring skill as a canoeist has fled to the 
winds. I am a mere beast of burden. 
But the "longest lane" — can this be one? — has its turn- 
ing. Toward evening of a long and weary day the "glad 
waters" of the Wagancis are in view. The burden is laid 
down for the last time. There is neither song nor story 
on that night to "welcome the coming guest," nor 
spruce bough couch — nor sheltering tent. Wearily we 
sought "nature's sweet restorer" 'neath hemlock tree — 
nor sought we it in vain. 
The beauties of the St. John Eiver— the Canadian Ehine 
—have been referred to by me in previous notes. But just 
as you cannot see the glories of the European Ehine at 
such a place as Bonn or on lower Ehine generally, and 
have to ascend to the Seven Mountains, St. Goar, or 
Bingen, so you must proceed up the Canadian Ehine to 
see its beauties — on the principle pointed out by Buskin — 
"The spirit of the hills is action, that of the lowlands 
repose, and between these there is to be found every 
variety of motion and of rest." 
As you ply pole or paddle down this grand St. John 
Eiver, when you have left behind "wilderness and solitary 
place," and as you pass picturesque village and smiling 
farm it is your never-ceasing thought, "here is the place 
for the emigrant and sportsman; here he can lead a life of 
comfort and usefulness, and use rod and gun to his heart's 
content," Micmac, 
