822 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 27, 1913. 
I certainly had not forgotten many things 
this glorious day, but I waited. 
“Monsieur, he forgot to feesh in Petite La 
Grenier.” 
It was true. The very thing I had made 
the long day’s trip for had been lost sight of. 
I gave my canoemen some cigars to lure the 
memory of my forgetfulness from his mind; but 
Little Lac Grenier was not whipped by a fly that 
day. We drank to it, “Mons. Webaire” and I, in 
its clear, cool water. 
“A caribou too will go long way 
To drink de sweet water of Lac Grenier.” 
— Drummond. 
Trouting On The Pine 
OW that reminds me” of an experience 
J.^3 I had on the Pine River, and not so 
very long ago, either. You see that 
stream is now easily reached from Chicago by 
way of the Northwestern Line to Wild Rose, 
and Chicago—well, if Boston is the “hub of the 
universe,” as some claim, “Chicago is the axle of 
the United States.” Yes, we believe we are the 
center of things down there in the Windy City. 
Just the same, along in August, when the south¬ 
west winds blow, hot as the breath of a blast 
furnace, the streets of our city by the lake make 
one believe in the possibility of future punish¬ 
ment as elaborated by the old-time theologian. 
Fortunately for some of us, people do not care 
to attend church during the heated months, wise¬ 
ly seek the country for over Sabbath; and we of 
the “cloth” are at liberty to do as we please. 
Some of us, sans dignity, white shirts, and stiff 
collars, spend our vacations fishing. We are be¬ 
ginning to realize that rest and recreation are 
as much a religious duty as work and prayer. 
But I didn't intend to preach; though when a 
man forms the habit of mouthing words he is 
quite apt to set his jaw going and go away and 
forget it. 
A deacon of mine two years ago advised 
my wife and I to visit Pine River, saying that 
we could put up at a farmhouse, my wife could 
sketch and photograph to her heart’s content, 
and that I would be able to catch trout enough 
to eat, hinting that when I became acquainted 
with the stream I would run a good chance of 
catching a large fish or two. So one fine day 
in July we got down from the train at the pretty 
little town of Wild Rose, less than two hundred 
miles from the city, and, acting upon the advice 
of my deacon, I secured a team, driving out to 
Mr. H—’s, a genial farmer living not far from 
Idle Wild. We were soon comfortably estab¬ 
lished, and found the location ideal. I discov¬ 
ered some good pools, and, as dry-fly fishing was 
just beginning to be talked about, I experimented 
with the new method, for some of the open pas¬ 
tures along the river offered good opportunities 
to use the rod. Parenthetically, those experi¬ 
ments, and some carried out this last season, 
have led me to the conclusion that for broad, 
open streams the English idea is the most suc¬ 
cessful, but on small, brush-environed creeks it 
IT WAS A CHANCE FOR A FAIR CATCH 
