no 
F O RE ST AND_STREAM; 
[Aug. 6, 1904. 
poaching on the outskirts, it will not appreciably affect 
the game in the park as a whole. 
It has been the experience at the Yellowstone Park that 
wild animals in a protected area soon learn that they are 
safe there, and this of itself has a noticeable effect in the 
preservation of animal life. Protection for the fish is 
assured, inasmuch as the park contains the sources of 
many streams. 
God's gifts are great and grand beyond all description, 
but there are other places in the park that appeal to many 
of the visitors even more than scenery, and one is the 
animal paddock, an inclosure of 1,000 acres. In 1898 
Lord Strathcona donated his herd of sixteen buffalo to 
the Government, and in the mighty shadows of the huge 
mountains surrounding Banff this herd has increased to 
forty; during that time three only have died. Many 
good stories can be found here that would interest lovers 
of nature and animal lore. One story is of Strathcona, 
who for five years after their arrival in Banff was the 
recognized leader of the herd; at the present time he is 
thirty-one years of age, and a grander specimen of the 
buffalo bull could not be found. One day, however, a 
young Texas bull which had been imported, discovered 
that he was of age, and with a little encouragement from 
Strathcona they went about to contest the leadership. 
Strathcona at first thought Texas was bluffing, until he 
was rolled over, when, with anger and surprised wrath, 
Strathcona jumped to his feet and charged Texas, who 
met him half way with a vim that shook him to his tail. 
The fight lasted some hours, and so well did the young 
Texas sustain himself that old Strathcona came off second 
best with a broken horn. Since that time he seeks pas- 
tures new, and during the rutting season his loves are 
wooed apart, and out of sight of Texas, for there is 
danger, indeed, if he is ever sighted by the new leader. 
Another interesting feature of the paddock was the arrival 
of the first moose born in the inclosure. Its mother was 
hardly twenty-two months old when the baby arrived, but 
young as she was, she demonstrated her mother's love 
by chasing away several tourists who attempted animal 
sight-seeing on foot, and it was well for them the fence 
was so close, over which they climbed and escaped. In 
a cage wire-netted yard are several prairie wolves, com- 
monly known as the coyote, and a large gray wolf. The 
latter is quite friendly, and will allow anyone to stroke 
and pet him, receiving the caresses with every token of 
pleasure. 
The whole animal paddock has gone ahead in a wonder- 
ful manner ; moose, elk, caribou, black and white-tail deer, 
mountain goat, coyote, fox, wolf, and birds indigenous 
to the Northwest, all add attraction to the tourist. Many 
of the animals are quite tame, even looking for a caress 
or kind word from the visitors. The small deer are very 
friendly, often following the carriages to the gate of the 
inclosure. All the animals have made additions to their 
numbers, so that the graceful fawn, the long-legged 
moose, the dumpy buffalo calf, and the shy kit fox are no 
unusual sight. The last census of the park paddock num- 
bered eighty-one all told, and already new grounds are 
being picked out for fresh paddocks. 
Possibly winter is even a better time to see the animals 
than is the summer, for then the entire lot can be seen 
clustered around the racks and stacks of sweet mountain 
hay, for it is necessary to feed these pets with care if suc- 
cess with them is to be had. Some even get 
grain and vegetables, according to their condition and 
age. It is a pretty sight to see a long line of animals 
feeding side by side out of the same rack, where, if they 
were in their native home, it would be a case of fight and 
kill, for nature knows no peaceful laws such as those 
which govern this domain. This wonderful feeling of 
protection and security against their common enemy has 
been so bred in these animals that it seems to have gone 
forth into the surrounding country, for already large 
bands of deer are often seen within sight of the villages 
throughout the park. Even the wily mountain sheep, or 
so-called bighorn, stands in all his beauty looking down 
on this new found animal world with wonder and sur- 
prise. Several times sheep have even gone so far as to 
leave their mountain pastures — one of these mountains 
forming one of the boundaries of the paddock, acting as a 
fence — and enter the paddock to graze with their domesti- 
cated friends. There they get the love word that all ani- 
mal life is sacred here in the bounds of this great park, 
and this news travels in its own way over mountains and 
glaciers, rivers and valleys, until now within the 5,000 
square miles the mountain goat and sheep will no longer 
run with fear, while the small deer, elk, and moose travel 
in pairs or droves, secure from the hunter, a»d the bears 
of four colors can be kodaked to the traveler's pleasure. 
Even a mountain lion one day last summer wandered into 
the park within a mile of Banff. No doubt it was a mis- 
take, for when a carriage load of tourists passed him on 
the road, he looked much surprised, and even followed 
the carriage some distance to get another view of so 
strange a creature as the carriage and pair appeared to 
him. 
It has been the policy of the Government to let nature 
alone as much as possible in the park. We do not attempt 
to build level roads, and we have never cut a bush or tree 
that we could avoid cutting. The visitor finds this great 
park just as it was left to us by the great forces of 
nature that piled up these massive mountains and made 
openings through them for the streams. That the tourists 
of the world appreciate Banff is evidenced by the fact that 
during the last twelve months more than eleven thousand 
of them have visited it. Thus far has this resting place 
developed, where nature, man and God draw closely to- 
gether, and the coming years promise yet greater things 
than these. Howard Douglas, 
Superintendent. 
A farmer at North Bransford, Ct., had been missing 
many eggs from his hen-house of late, and was at a loss 
to account for the trouble. Sunday he took a day off 
and watched the hen-coop. Late in the afternoon he 
heard the hens making a great row, and rushed into the 
coop in time to see a big five-foot black snake crawling 
under the floor. He made a dash for it, captured it, and 
killed it. He noticed that there was something in the 
snake's mouth, and stepped on its head, squeezing out a 
china nest egg which the snake had stolen, mistaking it 
for a hen's egg. — Springfield Republican. 
A Summer in Newfoundland. — VII. 
(Continued from page 81 ) 
That night all precautionary measures were disre- . 
garded, for we made a roaring fire of birch logs, which 
lighted the woods in a great blaze. Slowly roasting on 
a skiyer of green wood hung a huge steak, while high up 
on a scaffold long strips of venison were drying in the 
smoke for future use; antlers, skull and scalp, all care- 
fully cleaned and salted, were stowed well in under a 
waterproof canvas. The former, although not well 
pointed, were large and very massive, indicating the 
probability of great age in their recent possessor. The 
fat sputtered, the fire crackled, and William, happy in the 
consciousness of a rapidly returning reputation as a 
hunter, related tales of fisherman's life along the coast, 
of the herring and cod banks, and of the "swiles" off the 
Labrador ice floes. He is one of those rare natural story 
tellers which the traveler so often finds hidden away 
among untutored peoples, and his accounts are vividly 
and his scenes graphically pictured by the most elo- 
quent gestures. He reminds me of old John Stroud, sage 
and philosopher of Alexander Bay, the man who many 
years ago traveled alone from Gambo to Bay of Islands 
with an important Government message. "Uncle John" 
is the best story teller in Newfoundland, and I never shall 
forget the night when I met him on the hills north of 
Island Pond in the Terra Nova country. He was sitting 
by the fire sewing up a pair of "shanks," and related 
story after story to a group of attentive sportsmen and 
admiring packers. Here is one of his tales, told in a way 
peculiar to himself, but any attempt on my part to do it 
full justice— any attempt to depict his simple humor and 
unique grammatical constructions — would prove a fail- 
ure. This is no idle story, either; and should a certain 
gray-haired sportsman in a certain great city far to the 
southward of Newfoundland, happen to read these pages, 
perchance he will open his eyes and enjoy a quiet laugh 
all by himself. 
"About five year gone, I t'ink it wuz, dat a sporter 
come from N— t' Newfoundland. 'E travels across de 
country on de train, comes t' Alexander Bay, stops, gets 
outen de train, an' walks over t' de village up t' a little 
'ouse, an' asks fur a cross ole guide called John Stroud — 
an' dat wuz meself. He wuz de of ■ • Arms Com- 
pany, but de unhandiest shot wid a gun dat ever I guided 
on de country. We closed t'ree big stags right 'andy, an' 
he wuz nigh enough onto four or five more, but I don't 
t'ink dat gentleman ever shot inside two rod o' de mark ; 
no, I don't t'ink it. Well, a fortnight wuz gone an' I 
wuz a feelin' mighty oneasy. 
"You knows right well, sir, de White Hill Plains, up t' 
de nor'ard, an' you knows de big barren by de east'n end. 
Well, in dat barren be a little pond, an' roun' de edge of 
de little pond be a wet ma'sh, an' in de center of dat wet 
ma'sh muz somet'ing. What wuz it, sonny ?" . (addressed 
to Frank Sayre, who accompanied me). "Why, bye, a 
company o' deer. On de right wuz de 'tan hoods, on de 
left wuz a bunch o' tucks, an' in de middle behind a far 
tree wuz we. Un ole stag an' six does an' two fawns 
wuz in de company, an' it wuz de last day o' September, 
as I remember. Well, we closed dem up t' eighty yards, 
an' den says I to de ole gentleman, 'You be 'andy enough, 
sir;' but de t'irty-t'irty wuz a shakin' in his 'an's, an' 'is 
tect' a chatterin'. 'Now, sir,' says I, 'you take de ole stag 
an' I'll kill dat fat doe fur camp meat, an' we'll bote fire 
togedder.' 
"Well, down goes de stag, shot in de lights, an' up 
jumps de ole man jest like he been un o' dem Husqui- 
maux. 'E dances roun' an' roun', an' shakes 'an's right 
ways an' den crossways fur luck, an' 'e pulls ten dollars 
outen 'is pocket an' 'ands it over to me; an' me, I jest 
grins an' keeps quiet." 
"But did ye miss de doe, John?" queried 'Lige Sweet- 
apple from across the fire. 
"You never mind 'bout de doe. I never aimed at 'er, 
'Lige," and a broad, significant smile spread over the old 
man's features. 
Sand Pond is literally filled with small trout, the veri- 
table speckled fontincdis, and so are many of the larger 
lakes in Newfoundland. In September every cold brook 
which feeds its waters contains hundreds of them lying 
in ranks and files like soldiers, heads up stream, on their 
way to the clear springs of the spawning grounds. At 
sundown, dozens of the little fellows, not more than ei<*ht 
or nine inches long, play and frolic in the shallow water 
of the outlet. There must be some deep, dark holes where 
big fish lurk, for a trout attains his greatest size and per- 
fection not in a swiftly running brook, but hidden in the 
placid depths of a lake — just such a lake as ours. 
So I builded a little raft of spruce logs, bound it to- 
gether securely with long fibrous roots, hacked out a 
rough paddle with the ax, and pushed off from shore. 
The inlet or outlet were of course the most likely places, 
and they were tried first. But small trout bothered me 
somewhat, two or three often rising together to a single 
fly. How truly incongruous it seems — bothered by trout ! 
Big fellows were there somewhere, down near the bottom, 
but wholly indifferent to all my efforts. The old conserva- 
tive theory that a dull fly should be used on a bright day, 
failed as completely as did the more modern rule which 
dictates that a brilliant fly on a sunny day gives less con- 
trast and is the more successful. They had no appetites 
whatever, either for the gaudy feathers of a Parmachenee- 
belle or the sombre colors of a black-gnat. Then I tried 
another method — one usually deadlier than any — and 
drifted up and down through the outlet with a fat grub 
baited on a plain bare hook, allowing the latter as free 
access to the nooks and crannies of the bottom as pre- 
viously I had thrashed every foot of the surface with my 
flies. Strikes were plentiful, it is true, but such strikes — ■ 
mere nibblings at the poor grub by fingerling fish; or in 
case a lively half-pounder happened along, he seized the 
bait with a tug worthy of a salmon, and then rising to the 
surface, proved himself only a little fellow, after all. 
No angler ever lived who was not hopeful, philosophic, 
and thoroughly persevering. I had tried the two best 
methods known to the piscatorial art with utter failure, 
but there was still another in reserve, and I paddled back 
to camp, still expectant, and with a firm resolve to try 
it again on the morrow. 
Two - years ago when in Quebec, on the far-famed 
waters of Lake Edward, I learned that many of the 
heaviest trout are killed on a small spoon. This, ofi 
course, as a general practice is totally repugnant to the 
ethics of sportsmanship, but the method is often tried 
merely for the purpose of locating the retreats of tile fish. 
The same may be said of the ouananiche fishing in Lake 
St. John. During August they will strike at a spoon or 
spinner even more readily than at a fly, and it is to be re- 
gretted that many record Catches are made by means of 
the former death-dealing device. The fish average small 
at Lake St. John, two and three-pounders as a rule, and 
their mouths are correspondingly smaller; but how can 
any fish do himself full justice as a fighter with a gang 
of hooks widely distending his open jaws? The same 
may be said of the maskinonge fishing h-rmany parts of 
the St. Lawrence and throughout the Kawartha Lake 
system of lower Ontario. Here the use of a good sized 
spoon is almost universal, and there is no doubt that as 
compared with a single hook, the former seriously handi- 
caps a fish of medium size, and mars the sport consider- 
ably. Maskinonge may not be as aristocratic as salmon 
or brook trout, bij£ they are grand fish none the less, 
and if given a fair chance on light tackle, one of them 
will take good care of himself, and perchance surprise 
not unpleasantly the fly-fisherman, with all his con- 
servatism and candor. 
If the shade of Izaak Walton himself should suddenly 
appear at one of our summer fishing resorts, what a sur- 
prise would await it: For "Piscator" would see things 
unrecorded in the pages of that "little treatise on fish and 
fishing with an angle" written so many years ago. Per- 
haps he would open his eyes in astonishment at the 
methods employed, and perchance he would enjoy a quiet 
laugh, all by himself, at the expense of the fisherman of 
to-day. For truly, and sad it is; the art of angling has 
kept well abreast of the times. It has grown and ex- 
panded in this life of highly organized industrialism of 
ours, and consequently has lost much of its old-time 
quaintness and conservatism. In some localities it can 
hardly be termed an art at all, but has been reduced by 
skillful modern inventions to the almost mathematical 
precision of an exact science. 
Just glance for a moment at some of the men who start 
ouc from Alexandria Bay for pickerel and bass — or better 
still, at the one who tries his luck with lake trout on the 
Charleston or Red Horse waters. Make a good inventory 
of his equipment, let him explain its use, and you will 
wonder why any fish are left in the water to bite. The 
sportsman is sitting contentedly in the stern of a St. 
Lawrence skiff; bneath him a well padded cushion, be- 
hind him a chair-back, while a pair of strong guide's 
arms do the work. The latter knows all shoals, weed 
beds, and padded coves in the pond, as well as the 
sunken logs where big "oswegoes" hide, and "the very 
best trout grounds in that region." This he knows well. 
But even should subsequent events prove to the contrary, 
that innocent waiter in the stern, the man from the city, 
never learns the difference, and hopes expectantly for a 
strike. Towards evening that strike comes; not a very 
hard one, to be sure, but enough; for a double gang of 
needless hooks were never known to tear out, and surely 
that end of the tackle at least is safe. The rod bends, 
but never breaks; no danger there, for that rod is made 
of well tempered steel, and guaranteed to hold anything 
that swims. But the fish is heavy, he pulls hard, he is a 
big io-pound laker, and is the line safe? Oh, yes; that 
line is the strongest on the market, for it is made of 
braided copper wire warranted to hold a dead strain of 
fifty pounds. Watch closely, now, and you will see that 
the man in the . stern calmly holds his rod in* one hand 
waiting for the end, and that he never once touches the 
crank of the reel. But what is the use ? His reel has no 
crank, it winds up like a clock; an automatic reel, where 
"the little finger does it all"— no chance left for the poor 
fisherman ! The trout is surely weakening, and now, com- 
pletely tired out, it is wound in ready for the landing net. 
The guide stoops down and picks up from under the bow 
a very peculiar device — all levers and springs. He gently 
taps the fish with it, and immediately two steel prongs 
transfix the latter and a moment later it struggles safely 
in the bottom of the boat. That is the "no escape" gaff. 
This is an age of invention, 'tis true, but has modern 
science yet produced improvements more varied and 
unique than we see in the evolution or degeneration of 
fishing tackle? 
In my outfit was a small star spoon, sharp of hook, 
brilliant of feather. With this attached to a nine-foot 
leader and a split buckshot nipping the latter some three 
feet from the end, I trolled slowly around the shores of 
the pond. Likely looking coves, sharp, rocky reefs, and 
deep holes, were all carefully explored, while special at- 
tention was bestowed upon the places where brooks 
emptied their icy streams into the warmer waters below. 
It was hard paddling on that raft, and wet for the feet 
as well, but the 'breeze was light and I could feel the 
spoon throbbing and tugging, free of weeds as it whirled 
and twisted through the water. For two hours I trolled 
without a strike, almost completing a circuit of the pond. 
Gloom had commenced to settle over the water, and the 
chance for a good supper looked slim enough. But just 
at the entrance to the outlet, not ten rods from camp, I 
struck a fish, and, after a brief struggle, landed him, 
struggling, in the net. How often it happens , that we 
travel far away diligently searching for happiness or suc- 
cess, and then turn back home without it, only to find 
it waiting on our very door-steps. Here was the very 
spot where big fellows were lurking, right by the tent. So 
I selected a small scarlet-ibis for dropper, intermediate 
a royal-coachman, and as tail flya large white-miller. 
At the third or fourth cast a two-pound fish rose prettily 
to the tail fly, and a few moments later another of per- 
haps 2y 2 pounds in weight struck the miller again below 
the surface. Both fish were safely landed, and with them 
a third of the same size was lying on the boughs which 
covered my raft. They were all very dark in color, much 
more so than any of the small fry seen jumping in the 
shallower water. In fact, they were the deepest colored 
fish that I have ever seen in such clear water, quite in 
contrast to the delicate flesh pink so frequent in the Long 
Island variety, or the brilliant silver of the sea trout. 
Noticing their undoubted preference for a white fly, I 
hastily changed my cast; and now with an ibis as inter- 
mediate and two small white-millers as tail fly and drop- 
per respectively, I tried for another rise. Soon it came, 
and his broad tail splashed the water as seizing this time 
the ibis, he surged off in a great arc toward shore, and 
then tore off. It was too dark to see plainly, but my little 
