FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 27, 1913. 
820 
and, a little before serving, you add salt, pepper 
and a table-spoon full of molasses and that is 
all.” 
“Molasses,” said I, “why there is not a drop 
in the settlement. We have sent everywhere and 
cannot get any.” 
“That is so,” she replied, “but as so little was 
required, I took some that I have fixed up for 
jaundice.” 
The words wer e hardly out of her mouth 
when I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. 1 
made one jump for the door and—paid the lands¬ 
man’s tribute to the sea. 
The people of the coast, not being very clean¬ 
ly in their habits, are troubled with a parasite 
whose name is not mentionable to ears polite. 
Now it seems that this odious insect has one great 
therapeutic virtue and, when boiled in molasses, 
is a sovereign specific for jaundice, one of the 
prevalent diseases of the coast. 
This explains the effect of Ludivine’s an¬ 
nouncement, and I need not say that I shunnei 
her hospitality ever afterward. 
The Hanging Lakes 
LITTLE LAC GRENIER 
W HEN I first read William Henry Drum¬ 
mond’s fascinating poem, Little Lac 
Grenier, one night with “Mons. Web- 
aire” in California, I had no idea that I should 
ever see the lake, much less have an opportunity 
to cast a fly in it. Perhaps you may remember 
it, if not you will thank me (if you love the 
Laurentian lakes) for recalling it to mind. It 
is in Drummond’s “Johnnie Courteau” and tells 
the story of the little lake hanging in the Lau¬ 
rentian hills: 
“Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone, 
Right on de mountain top, 
But cloud sweepin’ by, will fin’ tarn to stop. 
No matter how quickly he want to go, 
So he’ll kiss leetle Grenier down below. 
Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone, 
Up on de mountain high, 
But she never feel lonesome, ’cos for w’y? 
So soon as de winter was gone away 
De bird come an’ sing to her ev’ry day. 
Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone, 
Back on de mountain dere, 
But de pine tree an’ spruce stan’ ev’rywhere 
Along by de shore, an’ make her warm 
For dey kip off de win’ an’ de winter storm! 
Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone, 
No broder, no sister near, 
But de swallow will fly, an’ de beeg moose 
deer 
An’ caribou, too, will go long way 
To drink de sweet water of Lac Grenier. 
Leetle Lac Grenier, I see you now, 
Onder de roof of spring, 
Ma canoe’s afloat, an’ de robin sing, 
De lily’s beginnin’ her summer dress, 
An trout’s wakin’ up from hees long res’. 
Leetle Lac Grenier, I’m happy now, 
Out on de ole canoe, 
For I’m all alone, ma chere, wit’ you, 
An’ of only a nice light rod I had 
I’d try dat fish near de lily pad. 
Leetle Lac Grenier, O! let me go, 
Don’t spik no more, 
For your voice is strong lak de rapid’s roar, 
An’ you know youse’f I’m too far away, 
*For visit you now—leetle Lac Grenier.” 
^Kindness of G. P. Putnam’s Sons. 
One obtains a very inadequate idea of this 
country from a map, and it is astounding that 
in so few hours from New York or Montreal, 
one can lose himself in the north woods with 
nothing between him and Hudson’s Bay but the 
eternal forests of Canada. Little Lac Grenier is 
not shown on some maps, just as some very 
choice things are hidden from public view, I 
fancy; but on the map there is in the immediate 
region a maze of lakes apparently on a level, 
but the facts are that they are more often high 
in air, nestled among the hills in little nests or 
pockets of the Laurentians. Little Lac Grenier 
was one of these, and you or I, had we not been 
told about it, would have passed it by a thou¬ 
sand times, as who in drifting over the surface 
of Lac Perchaude or Lac LaPeche in the Prov¬ 
ince of Quebec, would have thought to look up 
into the air, on top of one of the Laurentian 
mountains to find a lake nestled in the woods. 
But it is just as Drummond says: 
“Leetle Lac Grenier, she’s all alone, 
Right on de mountain top, 
But clouds sweepin’ by, will fin’ time to stop 
No matter how quickly he want to go, 
So he’ll kiss leetle Grenier down below.” 
One day I found myself literally at the feet 
of Little Lac Grenier, and with the greatest fish¬ 
erman’s luck imaginable, ready to re-discover it, 
and cast a fly on its limpid waters. We started 
with two canoes, *Mons. Weber and Eubold, and 
*George A. Weber, Esq., of Pasadena, Cal., 
and Stamford, Conn. 
I with the Cadarettes at the paddles. I think 
with a long-range rifle I could have sent a bullet 
from Sans Souci to Lac Grenier, somewhere up 
in the air, yet it was a half a day’s trip by canoe 
and carry; as the lake, as Drummond says, was 
up in the mountain side and we had to go north 
to reach it, and to other lakes by many devious 
and enchanting paths. 
We got away in fine fashion one morning, 
the birch canoe of my friend in the lead, and 
we were soon flying across Lac Perchaude, 
headed for Bonnjours, near the carry. The air 
was fine and crisp and clear as crystal. You 
could see a million miles if you looked up over 
where Little Lac Grenier was supposed to be, 
into the blue empyrean. The thermometer said 
40 degrees, just the temperature for canoeing. 
The big blue herons who lived along shore lum¬ 
bered off as we came on. The little white squad¬ 
ron of gulls in the center rose and laughed at 
us after their fashion, and the kingfishers gave 
them back laugh for laugh as they were driven 
from point to point, or hovered in the air over 
some trout before plunging down. The lake was 
smooth, mirroring all the beautiful things of 
nature, the great masses of dome like silver in 
the sky, and its surface seemed to be painted 
with blue silver and splashed with real greens 
and browns, a kaleidoscope of color, lustrous and 
beautiful. 
My men were in the lead, racing to the head 
of the carry, but when they reached it, they 
slowed down, a delightful bit of canoe courtesy, 
and allowed my friend and host to make the 
landing first. They never forgot this. It was 
always a race at the finish and always a wait for 
the host to have the honor of leading the way 
and landing first. A book could be written of 
the courtesies of the forest, and it was a joy to 
see these fine men, descendants of the old voy- 
ageurs, splendid types of men physically, with all 
the instincts of gentlemen and with a courtesy 
and good breeding beyond reproach. 
On landing, the carry was lined with yellow 
astor-like flowers, which made a blaze of gold 
in the shallow water into which the bow of the 
canoe ran. The men took the packs, shouldered 
the canoe, and strode off through the tall grass 
of a coarse, sharp variety, rich in greens. The 
carry was lined with trees through which a trail 
led into the forest. The trail rose gently to the 
divide, ran along the old clearing of some habit¬ 
ant, where corn rustled in the wind, and was 
lined with raspberries, flaming with golden rod 
now taking on a russet hue, with distant patches 
of yellow, pink and white daisy-like flowers in 
every direction. 
There was a mile of carry through the deep 
forest of black and silver birches, maples and 
pines, along cliffs of the old Laurentian rocks 
rising on the right with here and there great 
trunks bent and twisted, or avalanches of rocks 
like rivers of stone. Soon down the carry, we 
sighted the silvery sparkle or radiance of the 
water of Lac La Peche. The canoes are dropped 
and we are off again on clear sunlit waters in 
which the lofty hills are reflected again and again. 
The carry is somewhere a mile up the lake on 
the face of the forest, and the men with long, 
swinging strokes head for it, the only mark be¬ 
ing a slight depression on the mountain sky line. 
A long reaching into the water is the dock. We 
leap ashore, take the rifles, each canoe team try¬ 
ing to make the best time, and soon the cavalcade 
was striding up the side of the mountain through 
one of the most beautiful stretches of forest in 
the Laurentians. 
The trail was often a canon of broken down 
flowers or ferns, now through the bed of a dry 
brook or over black mud where the hoof marks 
of the moose, bear claws and others are distinct¬ 
ly seen, so distinctly that you inadvertently look 
around to see if the game is not watching you 
from some covert. We climbed on, up and up. 
I could but think of the stage settings that Henry 
Irving was fond of giving, as the light which 
came sifting down through the green and yellow 
canopy was essentially artificial. On the south 
side of the trail a little brook ran musically 
along in a gorge of its cutting, now pouring 
over moss-covered rocks or beneath great fallen 
trunks draped in rich green vestments of velvet, 
or again spreading out in little sandy reefs, to 
drop away mysteriously into some fern lined and 
guarded abyss. 
But the great wonder of this trail to Little 
Lac Grenier and a feature in the adventure, 
were the lights and shadows which poured down 
through the interstices of the green and yellow 
leaves of maple that rustled, clashed, and made 
music as the caressing hand of the wind swept 
along. 
You could see bands of light, big and little, 
which seemed tinted gold, silver and all the 
greens and yellows, illumining the glen of the 
brook with a real radiance, and seemingly filled 
it with molecules of gold. I fell a victim to its 
allurements and dropped behind, an excellent ex¬ 
cuse for one who really lost his wind; but there 
was compensation, as while I stood silent and 
appreciative all alone, I heard a rustle, then an¬ 
other, and several grouse came along, innocent 
