6 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Never after the first slack of the line are 
you in doubt as to whether or not he is 
on! He is or he isn’t. In this case he 
was very much on, for after twenty min- 
utes of excitement he came to the net on 
his side, beaten. Old Albert’s handling 
of the canoe had been superb! Not a 
word had been spoken but the play had 
been watched with unshown interest. He 
made no comment but removed the hook 
and taking the scales weighed the fish (18 
lbs. and a fraction), then quietly dropped 
the spoon back in the water, at the same 
time throwing in the line and resuming 
the paddle. It was a succession of four 
strikes and four lucky landings before we 
made the mouth of Deer Bay Creek. 
Turning the low point, we paddled a 
little over a mile through a cranberry 
swamp, the channel winding sharply one 
bend after another, through the under- 
growth (where the muskrat and shore 
beaver have their homes) and into the 
creek, which, in reality, is a fair-sized 
it up, I went back to camp and selected a 
small floating bait, then going to the up- 
stream end of the pool, I cast down stream 
and let the bait play gently in the just 
perceptible current. It hadn’t wobbled 
ten feet when I had a strike — a small- 
mouth of a little over two pounds, and in 
ten minutes I took four, all of a size — 
a supper for a king. Old Albert can cook 
fish THAT ARE COOKED, with a slice 
of pork and — but what’s the use — the 
thought of it makes me “woods-sick.” 
T HE tin dishes were washed, the frying 
pan scoured with sand, the sun had 
just gone down over the purple hills 
of Lake Catchicoma, logs were on the fire, 
the evening pipes lighted and the whip- 
poorwill behind the camp was singing its 
incessant, breathless serenade, there was 
the cry of a loon in the distance and over- 
head a lazy, effortless winging crane was 
wending its homeward way. It was per- 
fect, this evening in its sounding stillness! 
Deer Bay Creek in the Burleigh Lake region of Ontario 
river. The swamp gradually narrowed 
till we came to the real stream. A mile 
up this stream we came to our first “white 
water,” then after the portage, into a 
lovely seven-mile stretch winding snake- 
like through a maple and hardwood forest 
of perfect trees, huge, spreading, majes- 
tic and reaching over the bank. We pad- 
died in the shade in water so clear, one 
could count the pebbles on the bottom and 
see the fish dart darkly through the 
water, across the sun-shot spaces be- 
tween the shadows of the trees. 
Leaving the wooded stream, we rounded 
a sharp turn to find the remains of an old 
lumber dam, which still held up consid- 
erable water, making a great pool on the 
up-stream side. As it showed signs of 
haying been a river camping place of the 
lumberman, in the days past, we decided 
to camp on the old site. 
It was early evening and the sun had 
still a long trail to travel, so, after help- 
ing with the tent, I took the fly-book and 
went to the pool. I cast for half an hour, 
from all angles of the shore, and, though 
I could see them in the pool, the bass 
would not rise to the fly. Before giving 
As we sat and smoked, I tried to ment- 
ally suggest to my companion what I so 
much desired to know — the ideal of the 
Indian and the old verbal history of the 
Ojibway, the Water-tribe of the Algon- 
quin. Old Albert must have sensed my 
thoughts for he looked away at the crane 
still floating leisurely to its nest, now a 
speck almost in the halo of the sunset 
and with a faint smile, said : “Shuh-shuh- 
gah (the heron) loses itself in the West, 
— it flies no one knows where but tomor- 
row’s dawn will see it again. It is like 
my people, — who can say where they have 
gone? They were many, now they are 
few. The sunset has taken them to itself 
but will the dawn bring them again; — 
Who can tell? 
“In my youth I was called Waw-be- 
ahmek (the white beaver). We were a 
big, proud people; the lakes and rivers 
were ours, now we are small and ever 
smaller; the sunset is gradually taking 
us to itself ; — the dawn may come, I 
don’t know. This I remember — my 
mother’s mother told me: — Many, many 
years ago, before the white man came to 
the Southern shore of the Great Salt 
January, 191* a 
Waters, the Indian lived in peace; yea: [lit 
on years had we peace one with anothe: Jtt 
it was a time of plenty and we were ha; ^ 
py. The land was large and Gitcli Jet 
Manito, the Master of Life, gave to j Jlo 
in abundance. l 
“In that day a council of the natioi 
was held to make a universal law whit i 
would govern all the tribes and ler I 
fVl A»V1 + n +n ivl- V, -H /] n.-Mn4-n v> m • 
them into a further understanding 
the beauty of justice and peace. T] f 
council was held at the Isle of Gitch f 
Manito in the Huron Water. In tl a 
Moon of Leaves (May) were gather) 
together all the old men, wise councillo: 
and chiefs from all the nations. Fro if 
Wabasso (North) came the Cree ai a 
Blackfeet, from Mudjekee (West) t) K 
Sioux, Dakota and Lakota, from Shawo: „ 
dasee (South) the Seminole and Cher 
kee, from Wa-bum (East) the Wabanak 
Penobscot and Passamquody and all i 
our Winnebago, Algonquin, ChippewLL 
Huron, Delaware and Seneca. 
“All were gathered; — one thousar 
chiefs in council, in the Moon of Leave 
At the full of the moon, the fire in tl® 
circle at its height, the sky clear as tl! > 
polished head of the hunting-spear,— ! t 
cloud, as delicate as Mahushbe (tl j 
white swan), covered the moon and i | 
the fire-light stood Chibiabos, the Moul 
of Gitchi-Manito, the Master of Lif, ' 
known of old time as the Great Counci ^ 
the worker on earth of all things goo j 
Even the night birds were still as tl j 
council awaited His message. Lookim T 
slowly around the entire circle, Chibit 
bos raised the two fingers of peace air 
in a voice as gentle as Segwm (tl 
Spring) he said: ‘The Gitchi-Manito 
pleased ; His face is bright with the ha] 
piness of His children, the day is fa: 
and live you still in peace and in justit 
li 
i 
I 
rule the land. There will come in a fi 
ture day a stranger among you. Remen 
ber in that day to dwell in peace air 1 
exact justice among yourselves and froi 
the stranger. Let hospitality rule tl) 
land; all will be well and the land pier 
tiful for all. Heed the word; do nr 
raise the spear of war among yourselvC 
and all will be well. I am the messengt 
of Gitchi-Manito, the Master of Life ;— '1 
He has spoken.’ 
“The silver swan obscured the moo 1 
and Chibiabos had returned to the Ma, 1 
ter of Life. Solemnly the council dir 
cussed the message. 
“Years passed, many years, then froi 
the Southland came the message of th 
Great Cheemaun (canoe). The East an 
North also sent the message. The Whit 
Man had come — the Stranger of Gitch: 
Manito’s message. Few years passe 
and the white nations fought amon 
themselves, — still the Indian peoples we 
corned all with peace, hospitality an 
justice. 
“Then Mitchi Manito (the Spirit c 
Evil) soiled the nation. Our forefather 
joined the white man and took up th 
spear of war against each other. Gitcl 
Manito, the Master of Life, had turne 
his face away. 
“This is the history of our people. ] 
is an old, old story. The Dawn ma 
bring them back. Who can say?” 
The fire was in embers. I could nc 
speak. It was the Moon of Leaves agaii 
! 
! 
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