Oct. 8, 1898.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
291 
the king of all game birds for the table, the royal wood- 
cock; all the vegetables of the season and those other 
accompaniments which a refined taste suggests. Blessed 
be he who gave us that excellent motto, now used by the 
Hoboken Turtle Club, of New York City: "As we 
journey through life let us live by the way." It's a mot- 
to well worthy of thought, for it's about all a fellow gets 
in this vale of tears, bustle, rheumatism, turtle, woodcock 
and Burgundy: and the latter brings on gout and there 
you are. 
In the Colonel's room the work of the setters was 
reviewed in detail. "Did you notice how grandly young 
Bob backed old Dan's point before you killed your 
second bird? He'll make a splendid dog in another 
year if he's hunted enough; there's no better stock 
in the South, sir; no better stock anywhere. You have 
had a wider experience than I, Major, but I challenge 
you to produce a finer brace of setters than Bob and 
Dan." 
"I can't do it, but I challenge you to show reason for 
giving me a military title." 
"Challenee accepted. I got it from a batch of letters 
awaiting you at Alexandria, and which my boy brought 
me for you." As he said this a shade passed over his 
lace, and he toyed with his cigar awhile. What the old 
darky Sam had told me about one son being killed be- 
fore Atlanta and another getting his death wound at 
Port Hudson came up to me, and again I felt out of 
place, but smoked on until after a while the Colonel 
added: "Were you with Sherman or Banks?" 
I saw the drift of his question: Was I with either of 
the armies that made him almost childless? His tone 
expressed more than words can, and I hastily answered: 
"Oh, no, my service was entirely in Virginia, with the- 
Army of the Potomac." 
The old man's face changed, but he made no further 
remark about the war, and surely I would not. 
"When we drove up to the house on Monday," said 
the Colonel, "you may have noticed a poor old blind 
hound that came out to greet me; old, lame and blind!" 
"Yes, I saw the poor old dog and patted his head, 
knowing that he had grown old in your service, as many 
of your servants have, but, like them, he is not to be 
turned adrift because he is no longer useful." 
"There is more than that," said he, "I once had two 
sons, as brave boys as ever trod this earth. Like their 
father and his ancestors, they were fond of the chase, and 
as they grew older they longed to hunt more dangerous 
game than deer and turkeys, and they collected a lot 
of mongrel dogs for bear hunting, and descendants of 
these curs were among our welcomers. You noticed 
them?" 
"Surely, couldn't help it. for they were all eager for my 
acquaintance as one of your friends, and I mentally put 
them down as bear dogs." 
"Yes. that's what they are, they will bark around and 
harass a bear until the hunter comes up, when braver 
dogs would be killed." 
The old man again toyed with his cigar, and there 
was silence. He looked up as one from a dream and 
said: "You see that bearskin rug on the floor, the 
one with half the skull in, I mean?" 
"Certainly; it is a prominent object because of having 
only half the skull in. I noticed it the first time I came 
in the room." 
"About a dozen years ago my two brave boys organ- 
ized a bear hunt. Old Bugle, the poor old blind hound, 
was then two or three years old and would not be left 
behind. They started a bear in a cane field, and the 
dogs ran him into the tall timber and brought him to 
bay. The cur dogs were nipping at his heels when the 
boys came up, and emptied their rifles into the bear — 
3'ou know that we had only muzzle-loaders then — but 
the dogs were encouraged by the presence of the boys, 
even if the boys knew better than to urge the 
dogs on. A cur came too near the bear and was being 
squeezed to death when my youngest boy, Terrill, 
rushed in to club the bear with his rifle. He was 
knocked down and a great strip torn across his breast 
while his brother was loading his rifle. While my 
boy, Terrill, lay under the bear, only saved from death 
by his brother and his -canine friends, old Bugle dashed 
in to rescue his master, and received a stroke which 
blinded him for life. The bear was so assailed on all 
sides that he could not attend to and finish his human 
prey, which was under him, and my eldest boy, George, 
put a bullet in his brain which took off half of the 
skull. The skin of that bear lies before you, and you 
have seen the poor old sightless hound who would, if 
asked, track a bear as eagerly as he did a dozen years 
ago, but the boys think it best to leave the old dog 
home when a bear is to be started. What do you say 
to having a bear hunt some day?" 
"Nothing would please me better, for I have never 
hunted a bear, although I have met several under cir- 
cumstances when either I was not prepared to kill one 
or it was in summer, when neither hide nor meat was 
good, and I passed them by." 
The clock struck midnight; it was raining hard, and 
the wind beat it fiercely on the window; the Colonel 
wanted to hear that bear story in dialect again, and 
laughed as heartily at it as if he was listening to it 
for the first time. The kettle was steaming away mer- 
rily, and when we parted, an hour later, the famed gov- 
ernors of the Carolinas, had they been there, would have 
made no remark. 
The Colonel, as he bade me good night, said: "I'm 
afraid that this storm may postpone our bear hunt for 
several days." 
[to be continued.] 
A naval officer well known to Forest and Stream 
readers writes: "I have a great yearning once in a while 
to send you some 'copy,' but there are so many inter- 
ruptions that connected work is nearly impossible. I 
see that some can shoot and fish, if I cannot, and the 
stories are as good as ever in the Forest and Stream. 
I am delighted with the work of Fred Mather. It is 
grand. When one knows so much as he. and can tell 
it so well, it is a manifest duty to write." 
The Forest and Stream is put to press eacH v\eek on Tuesday. 
Correspondence intended for publication should reach us at the 
latest by Monday, and as much earlier as practicable. 
A Roberval Experience. 
Citillicothe, Ohio. Sept. 20.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: I hope you will publish the enclosed letter, 
which I have transcribed literally from the original let- 
ter I wrote to a friend, who is a brother lawyer and 
sportsman, of Columbus, Ohio, on the date "named. 
When I got home the other day, we a-greed that the 
letter might make an interesting one for your paper, and 
I think that it ought to be published for the benefit of 
sportsmen generally. It is a true and literal account of 
my own experience, and may be of value to brother 
sportsmen, whose interests your paper doubtless intends 
to foster. 
Lake Kenogami, Chicoutimi, Quebec, Aug. 18— My 
dear Charles: And now I will keep my promise to tell 
you of my trip to Lake St. John and the Roberval, and 
my first experience with the famed ouananiche. Before 
I came I obtained of the Roberval management their 
printed matter giving full information about the fish- 
ing: how that the Jake and all the rivers running into it 
were free to the guests of the Roberval. Imagine then 
my surprise and disgust over the denouement. I had 
heard that the best fishing by far was in the River Meta- 
betchouan; that the largest salmon were there, and. of 
course, the mere chance of killing a big one is more to a 
genuine devotee of the rod than the assurance of dozens 
of small fish. 
"But, to our tale," as our Bobby Burns introduces 
Tain's wondrous "ride." We came up on Monday 
from Quebec, reaching the Roberval Hotel about five 
in the evening. The hotel is situated on the south- 
western shore of Lake St. John, about a mile north of 
the straggling French-Canadian village of Roberval. 
Just why. with all the country to choose from, it was 
put where it is I cannot imagine, as the site is quite 
unattractive, and far away from any of the salmon fish- 
ing, of which it professes to be the center. The in- 
quiries I made Monday evening at the village confirmed 
my previous information: that the Metabetchouan, which 
empties into Lake St. John from the south about twenty 
miles east of the hotel, was the best fishing water within 
reach at this season. The outlet of the lake, called the 
Grand Discharge, is some twenty-five miles from the 
hotel, across the lake, only to be reached by a steamer, 
which does not leave the hotel until 10 o'clock. It is 
fished by a dozen rods every day. The fishing is quite 
expensive; including boat, guides and incidentals, about 
$8 a day, and the salmon taken average less than 2 l / 2 \hs. 
So I used the telephone (just think of it, on Lake St. 
John!) to make my arrangements: and Tuesday morning 
I went over to Roberval village and from there, four- 
teen miles, on a freight train to Chambord Junction. 
There my buckboard awaited me, and I was driven some 
six miles further around the lake to the mouth of the 
Metabetchouan, where I had been promised that I 
should find my guide, but when my French driver (with 
whom I had vainly struggled for the six miles to con- 
verse) and I reached the primitive ferry, just above the 
railroad bridge, I was dismayed to learn that Boivin was 
gone up the river. When we got to his home I found 
that he had gone up the river to guide a Mr. Follett, who 
has, or is to have, charge of an attempt to propagate the 
ouananiche for the benefit of the proprietor of the 
Roberval. They were expected back by noon, but when 
I waited until nearly 2 o'clock another employee of the 
hatchery, who was waiting too, offered to guide me up 
the river to meet them. Having secured some provisions 
from Madam Boivin, we rowed in a punt about a mile up 
the^ river, and then took to the trail. 
You and I have done some pretty rough work together 
under the name of "sport," but "that three-mile climb 
was "a corker" and no mistake. My rain coat and little 
Leonard . weighed a ton before we reached the almost 
perpendicular descent of about 400ft., over the rocks to 
the first pool. There, to my joy, I found Maurice 
Boivin; and the more I saw of him the better I liked 
him. Men are artificially classified as English. French, 
"Americans," etc.. but Boivin belongs to the noble genus 
sportsman, which knows no race nor color. 
Mr. Follett had gone back from above on a wagon 
with their tent, etc. Boivin was just ready to take the 
trail, and was far from well, but when I told him that 
I had heard of him in Ohio, and had come 1,000 miles 
to fish the Metabetchouan under his guidance, he laugh- 
ingly agreed in his broken English: "All rit! I show 
you plenty waniche," even with scanty fare, and a pros- 
pect of a night in the open. So, with a satisfactory 
tip, my quondam guide started again for the mouth of 
the river, and I got into the boat with Boivin. 
The river here runs through a savage gorge in the 
mountains, and a short paddle took us to the foot of a 
wild rapid, quite impracticable for a boat. Then, for a 
quarter of a mile, we clambered over broken masses of 
rock along the stream, until we reached the second pool, 
where Boivin had another rough boat. While I sat pant- 
ing on a rock, rubbing a bruised knee and mopping my 
face. Boivin put together the rod. fixed the reel, tied 
the well-soaked leader, selected a cast of flies from m}' 
book — a silver doctor and a queen of the waters — and 
we were ready for "business." Quietly along the rocky 
edge of the dark eddying pool he paddled the boat, turned 
it into mid-stream, dropped the heavy stone anchor; and 
my time had come. My undue exertion had made my 
arm a bit tremulous; and the wonderful accounts I had 
heard and read of "the leaping ouananiche" made me a 
bit anxious, as I dropped the flies to right and left with 
lengthening casts. At last comes a great swirl at the 
surface, a broad tail shows a moment, the line straight- 
ens, I "snap" the rod, and my first salmon is hooked. 
Boivin whispers. "He is a big wan." and I mentally ad- 
mit it as the fish leaps quite 2ft. into the air, turning three 
back-somersaults, and makes the reel scream with the 
rush that follows. After ten minutes of boring, run- 
ning and jumping the splendid fellow lies quivering on 
the bottom of the punt. Then I hand the rod to Boivin, 
telling him to cast, while I lieht my briar and admire my 
captive. I had no scale with me, unfortunately, as I 
had left everything but my road and fly-book at Boivin's 
house, but Boivin said it would weigh slbs., and it 
weighed 4^ twenty-four hours afterward. 
The ouananiche is truly a splendid fish; shaped like all 
the salmon, it is dark along the back, with a suggestion 
of steel blue in the color; a rather black bass yellow over 
the sides, but very thickly studded with jet black mark- 
ings somewhat in the shape (as I have read some- 
where) of a St. Andrew's cross; fading to a yellow 
white under the belly. But the finest feature is the trem- 
endous tail, finely fashioned, and broader, I feel sure, in 
proportion than even that of his big brother, the sea- 
going salmon. Without venturing to compare the 
strength and grit of the ouananiche. pound for pound, 
with the black bass, any one must admit. I think, that 
he is a bit finer "bred" than our sturdy favorite. 
After quite a while I had another strike, but this 
fellow in a mad rush in the current near the boat broke 
the hook (No. 4 sproat) at the barb. Then Boivin said 
that it was getting too late in the day, and that we had 
better climb out to an empty house he knew of, where 
we could spend the night. This we did, after another 
wearisome scramble; found a fairly comfortable place, 
and after some supper and a pipe slept the sleep of the 
utterly tired. 
Before we had prepared our breakfast next morning 
the pleasant old Frenchman who owned the house and 
meadows about appeared and made us welcome; and 
with him I arranged to drive us out to the railroad when- 
ever I wanted to go. 
Boivin had promised a good morning of sport at the 
upper pool, below the principal fall, and right well did 
he keep his word. This pool is an ideal spot. Some 
way above it the Metabetchouan. which is a large stream 
carrying more water than the Scioto, falls sheer down 
some 40 or 50ft., so that this is as far as the salmon 
can ascend. After the fall the water leaps down several 
sloping ledges until it foams into an oval pool about 
300ft. long by 150 wide, with the splendid wooded moun- 
tains rising from the rocky shores. But, best of- all, 
right in the middle of the pool lies an oval gravelly 
island, covered with blueberries, and from the sloping 
edges of which every part of the eddying river on cither 
side can be fished. Here in three memorable hours I 
killed twelve fish, which weighed that evening at the 
hotel 47lbs.. none over 5 and none under 3j41bs. And 
this without a net. so that I had literally to "kill them on 
the rod" before Boivin could dare tap them on the head 
and draw them gently over the pebbles. But he is an 
artist. Though half-sick, he took as keen an interest in 
every rise as Zack Nott could take in an approaching 
black duck. Never once, no matter how tempted, did 
he touch the leader, and not a fish did he lose. To 
give you some idea of the fighting qualities of this fish, I 
will say that altogether I hooked eighteen ouananiche 
and saved fourteen (one a little one that I put back). I 
doubt whether one could do so well with black bass of 
the same weight, though you must remember that I had 
a perfect fly-rod, which is more deadly than the stiffer 
rod we use for bass. Mr. Follett afterward told me 
that the fish were now coming up to spawn, and were 
not so difficult to manage as in June. But Boivin said 
there was nothing in this, that he never saw the fish 
struggle more actively; and we know that the sea-going 
salmon are fished for under exactly the same circum- 
stances. One. that I hooked some 60ft. away, gave seven 
great leaps before he consented to come within speaking 
distance. 
And now for the denouement: About 11 o'clock, as I 
was casting from the upper end of the island, and B oivin 
was sitting behind me, we heard a call, and saw some 
one standing on the rocks at the lower end of the pool. 
Boivin said that it was Mr. Follett, and started for the 
punt to ferry him over. As they talked together for 
some time, I walked along the shore toward them, cast- 
ing as I went, and in a moment hung a fine fish. Before 
I could divert my attention from the salmon Mr. Follett 
was by my side, and when I turned to him for the con- 
gratulations I expected I was met by the rather aston- 
ishing inquiry: "Mr. Douglas, have you anv authority 
from Mr. Beemer (the proprietor of the Roberval) to 
fish here?" I told him that I was a guest, with mv 
family, of the Roberval, and had relied upon the as"- 
surance, given in its letters and advertisements, that 
these waters were free to the guests during the open 
season. But Mr. Beemer wanted this stream preserved 
in order that he could take the fish for the hatchery, and 
had sent Mr. Follett to request me not to fish! I urged 
that he himself, as Boivin had told me. had taken eleven 
fine fish the day before, male and female, and put back 
none. This he admitted was true, but, said he. in effect, 
"I hadn't orter done it." I asked him why the Meta- 
betchouan was not excluded in the fishing advertised in 
the hotel printed matter, which expressly included it 
among the list of salmon streams, with pictures of its 
pools? This he could not answer. Nor could he deny 
that it was the best river, for size of fish, on the lake, and 
the most accessible. 
What was I to do? Follett himself was gentlemanly 
enough, and urged his orders from Beemer. I was 
strongly inclined to tell him to "gang ta the deevil" ; 
but there was Boivin; I could do nothing without him; 
he told me that he was employed by Beemer during 
the close season to patrol the stream, and it would hardly 
be fair to induce him, even if I could, to fish on with me 
for two or three hours more, and risk the displeasure of 
the man who could give him employment half the year. 
Then, too, I had had "sport enough for one day," 
though we all enjoy playing our luck while it lasts, and 
having "a run for our money." So I complied with Mr. 
Follett's request; detached my flies and casting line, to«k 
down the slim rod, ate blueberries in peace with Mr. F. ; 
climbed back to our night's quarters with the disgusted 
Boivin, and took Mr. Rovall's buckboard for the mouth 
of the river. Imagine my feelings on arriving there to 
learn that Mr. Beemer had gone up the river to fish. 
I took the train back to the Roberval. where my 
catch seemed to create something of a sensation. When 
I related my experiences to the managing clerk, he sim- 
ply told me that he "was sorry, but could not say any- 
thing." I declined his invitation to try the common- 
place $8 per day fishing at the Discharge, gathered my 
"kin folk," who had spent two uninteresting days at the 
hotel, and took the evening train for Chicoutimi. and 
now write you from the lovely shores of Lake Keno- 
gami, fifteen miles from Chicoutimi. Such is the story 
of my Lake St. John experiences. "Sic volvere Parcas," 
as Virgil has it; but I have made the acquaintance of 
that high-bred fellow, Sir Ouananiche, at any rate. 
It surely is a pity if all the angling for this noble fish 
has fallen into the hands of people who keep the best 
