FOREST AND STREAM 
823 
Salmon Fishing With “Haggie” 
A Story of Real Nova Scotia Salmon Fishing 
By H. A. P. S. 
W ITH your kind permission, Mr. Editor, 
allow me to introduce to your readers 
Haggle Luxy, a full-blooded Nova Sco¬ 
tia Mic Mac Indian, height six feet two, raw 
boned, of spare but powerful build, broad shoul¬ 
dered, quiet of manner, and low of speech, after 
the fashion of his race, age about seventy, big 
hearted, very strong in his likes and dislikes, 
and the best salmon fisherman that I have ever 
met, in or out of “Blue Noseland.’’ 
When memory carries me back over more 
years than I care to remember, I cannot but 
realize how exceptionally fortunate I have been 
in having Haggie as my instructor and com¬ 
panion on very many days by the river, after 
the king of all sporting fish, and, whatever 
slight proficiency I may have attained in all that 
pertains to salmon lore and salmon fishing, must 
be credited to him. The infinite pains he took 
to show me the best and most likely places to 
cast my fly, and the manner of doing so, surely 
must have been a labor of love, else how could 
he ever have retained his good nature as he 
watched my bungling efforts? 
Time and again I have fished a pool from 
top to bottom while Haggie sat and watched 
the performance, and when I turned to him for 
approval it would not always be forthcoming. 
Instead, his deep voice would grumble in sepul¬ 
chral tone, “Very rough that time, Boy. Go 
back, try again; you know—see.” This last was 
a favorite expression with him. So back again 
I would trudge to the top of the pool, feeling 
rather crestfallen, and begin all over again, when 
perhaps my feeble efforts would be rewarded 
with the expression, “Fished that pretty clean, 
Boy. You know see.” Only last spring I asked 
Haggie how it was he took such pains to in¬ 
struct me in his craft, and he replied, “I find 
you want to learn, and I see you was willin’ to 
fish, so I try help you all I could, you know 
see.” 
To fish when on the river with Haggie is not 
the only pleasure. Almost as enjoyable are the 
spells when we loll on some grassy knoll by the 
river's side, and this very lovable old man and 
I swap yarns, telling of our experiences with rod 
and gun. Some of his stories that I have lis¬ 
tened to would open at times both the fount of 
tears and laughter. 
“Have you always lived here by the river?” 
I asked him on one occasion. “Most always,” 
was his reply. “But one spring Yankee come 
down here and fish with me. He watch me make 
rods and flies, then he say, ‘Haggle, I got big 
factory- in States make piano. If you come go 
home with me I give you job, for I believe 
you make most anything.’ Well, I tell that 
Yankee soon as strawberry run of salmon over 
(last of June and part of July) I come work 
in your factory, you know see. Well, I take 
steamboat from Yarmouth and next day come 
on Boston. I go on shore, and everywhere I 
look, see nothing but high house. I don’t know 
where North, South, or nothin’, and for first 
time I can remember, I lost. 
“Somehow that man don’t meet me like he 
say he will, so I go on boat again and all I 
want that boat take me back on Nova Scotia, 
you know see. But pretty soon my friend Yan¬ 
kee man come look for me, and he have hard 
work coax me go shore, almost hard time you 
have coax big salmon up Delaney pool last 
spring, but bimeby I go with him. Well, I 
work that factory all summer and all winter 
too, make keys for piano. My, what lot money 
I save! More I ever have yet. 
“Then spring time come, and one day I miss 
my boss, so I say to other boss, ‘Where he 
gone?’ He tell me that man gone down Nova 
Scotia salmon fishin’. I try work, but my eyes 
so full tears I can’t see use tools no how. That 
night I can’t sleep. Seems I hear old river roar 
and call me all time. Pretty soon can’t eat 
Then I take first boat home. When I git there 
I go on wigwam house, hardly speak my people, 
jest grab old rod and run down this pool here 
where you jest been fish. I look all round, 
nothin’ makes noise, only rumble of river and 
singin’ them little bobolinks. Seems so I never 
hear 'em so sweet before, you know see. I like 
that hunder’ times better all city racket. While 
I stand there fix my cast, salmon jump right top 
rip where you hook that one yesterday. I take 
off my cap and I raise my hand, and I swear, 
old river, I never leave you ’gin so long I do 
live, so I always got stay here now for sure, 
you know see.” 
How well I knew his feelings, and my own 
homesick days came rushing back to memory 
when as a boy they tried to make me see it was 
all for the best to leave the woods and streams 
and live abroad. My joyous delight when again 
I cast a line after an absence of two years was 
awakened within me, and turning to the old 
Indian I made a confession that I too had taken 
a vow with myself and the forests that never 
again would the lure of cities and civilization 
separate us. With me, however, it was almost 
too late, and it took many months of living in 
the open and inhaling the healing life-giving 
aroma of the pines and spruces before I felt 
myself again. 
Before I met Haggie I had killed three sal¬ 
mon down on the Medway River, one of which 
weighed twenty-four pounds, and being very 
young, I was naturally conceited and elated over 
the fact. But, when during the next spring I 
happened to meet Haggie and to fish along with 
him, it suddenly dawned upon me that I had yet 
to learn all over again. Consequently I placed 
myself in his hands, and now, dear reader, if 
you are “just crazy for fishing,” and the hot 
blood of youth runs through your veins, and 
you are anxious to begin salmon fishing aright, 
I will try and explain some of the things worth 
knowing about the art as Haggie taught them 
to me. 
For various reasons I much prefer not men¬ 
tioning the name of the river where this old 
Indian and I fish. Let it suffice that it is in 
Nova Scotia and easy of access. In width it 
averages about one hundred yards where the best 
pools lie. In some spots the water attains a 
depth of fifteen feet or more, mostly pebbly bot¬ 
tom, with an occasional boulder here and there. 
Nearly all the land along its banks is cultivated, 
going to be tortured with black flies and their 
principally in orchard, and therefore we are not 
kin, so will need to take no “dope” along. 
Quite a current this river carries at all times, 
and during the spring months it is exceedingly 
rapid. This fact accounts for the sportiest of 
fish, in sporting water. 
We have made arrangements with Haggie over 
night to meet us at the foot of a favorite pool, 
and, when just at sunrise we leave the high¬ 
way, taking the path leading to the river, we 
perceive the old man waiting for us, with gaff 
slung across his back. “I believe good fishin’ 
day” is his only greeting. Do you see this little 
narrow “dog path” along the river bank? Hag- 
gie’s path, we may safely call it, for he is prac¬ 
tically the only one using it, and every day dur¬ 
ing the run of salmon his stealthy feet tread it 
at least once, and often many times. He never 
varies or strays far from it (reminding one of 
the Scriptures). All his fish are cast for, 
hooked, and gaffed while he stands in this well 
worn tiny trail. 
We follow on behind him, passing the shoals 
where the poo! spills itself over broken boulders 
into the more shallow river, opening out and 
widening over the pebbly bottom, leaving behind 
us some very likely looking water, until the 
very head of the pool is reached. My rod is 
here set up, a fourteen-foot Hardy Bros.’ green- 
heart (greenheart because I fancy a fish feels 
better on your line while playing him, than on 
a split cane rod), in weight twenty ounces, quite 
heavy enough for any salmon you will be likely 
to meet with in Nova Scotia waters. To the 
end of the three-foot single leader (always sin¬ 
gle) is bent on the fly, the selection of which 
I leave to the old master. There he sits, look¬ 
ing carefully over my entire stock, finally select¬ 
ing one, and with a grin remarking, “Try this 
one first.” 
I give a description of it here, with the earnest 
wish that some young angler may turn a blank 
day or two into successful ones by its judicious 
use, after all other lures have proven failures. 
So far as the writer knows there is no place 
where this fly is sold. The ones I have were 
made by Haggie, and I therefore have chris¬ 
tened it “the Haggie” after its author. Mixed 
turkey and wood-duck wing, silver body, golden 
pheasant tail, orange hackle, butt of tail pea¬ 
cock here, with blue silk winding, hackle ex¬ 
tends full length of body, with red shoulders, 
tied on No. 3 or 4 single hook. On an overcast 
day, or during a freshet, this fly is unbeatable. 
All being in readiness, I commence right at 
the top of the pool, just where the water be¬ 
gins to quicken. “Keep line straight,” I hear 
behind me, and then, “not too fast, take time. 
Make slow cast, plenty room behind, try light 
your fly in front every rip you see make up. 
