652 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May 24, 1913 
touch a rock, but waltzed through somehow into 
a deep basin that looked propitious for trout. 
Here ive paused to have a cast. Backing the 
canoe, I held her in position by the overhang¬ 
ing limbs, while the master of ceremonies set 
up his new five-ounce Hardy split-cane rod and 
selected a “professor” for the tail fly and a 
“Montreal” for the dropper. 
It was an ideal pool for trout, with the 
back eddy fringed with foam. Scarcely had 
the flies touched w'ater, when we knew there 
v'ere large trout lying in its cool depths. In 
a jiffy the reel sang, and the little rod bent to 
the strain of a heavy flsh. It was the largest 
trout the boy ever had hooked, and, of course, 
the first one of the season; but the tiny bam¬ 
boo stood the combined strain of the heavy 
water and weight of fish, and slowly with circu¬ 
lar rushes, ever shortening, he came at last 
to net. As I lifted him over the gunwale I 
saw he was an unusually large trout for Nova 
Scotia waters, so the scales were hunted out 
from the bottom of our duffle basket and regis¬ 
tered exactly pounds. It was decided to 
save him to send home with other big ones we 
might take to Digby, via the mail team, when 
w'e reached civilization on the morrow; but he 
w'as destined along with even heavier fish never 
to reach their intended destination. In a few 
minutes another beauty of two pounds and yet 
another of pounds were flopping in the 
bottom of our canoe. 
But now the shadows were beginning to 
creep, and reluctantly we pushed through the 
pool, shot another rapids, this time our paddles 
working in unison, and with a twist here and a 
push there, we dodged under some overhang¬ 
ing alders into a quiet still water. A green 
cove looked so tempting that it was decided to 
make our first camp there. While I busied my¬ 
self with cutting wood and pitching the tent, 
my partner tried a few casts into the still water, 
soon securing enough fish for supper. Trout 
cooked in salt pork scraps in a hot frying-pan 
are good, particularly good when you taste 
them for the first time in the season. Well, 
these were no exception, and while the kettle 
threw out the sweet aroma of tea, and the frying- 
pan sang, life seemed worth living. 
Long after the regular breathing of the boy 
proclaimed his tired sleep, I lay smoking and 
wondering if it could be possible that I had 
made my first trip to the woods a mere kid 
like he. The years I had loved the woods and 
streams and the adventures I had met with in 
virgin forest, were they to be repeated by my 
own flesh and blood? And I wondered, after 
all, if anything else could be worth while. Here 
at least was one spot where politics, religion 
or finance could not disturb the mind. I awoke 
with a shiver, for a white frost had fallen dur¬ 
ing the night, even creeping up to the fringe 
of dead embers about our little fire-place and 
congealing the water in our tin pail, which hung 
on the pot stick. Plenty of birch grew near, 
and it was only a minute until enough bark was 
stripped from a goodly sized tree to light the 
blackened embers again, and as the sun rose, 
we fried more trout and drained our “noggin” 
of tea. 
Down the still water we paddled, while the 
sun warmed the earth and the birds began to 
sing. My, but the woods were full of song! 
Among all the songsters only one made us rest 
upon our paddles as we listened to hiS' sweet, 
clear notes. That most accomplished musician 
of all Nova Scotia birds—the white-throated 
sparrow—never failed to arrest our quiet atten¬ 
tion as he sang to us from the top of some 
lonely pine. The world seemed a good place 
to live in this spring morning, and so carried 
away with the beauty of it all were we, that it 
was only by a quick twist of our paddles we 
shot our canoe into the bank, just avoiding hav¬ 
ing to run an unknown rapids that hissed and 
thundered around the sharp bend in the river 
ahead of us. Viewing the water as it tumbled 
and raced and foamed, I had grave doubts about 
running this rapid, but the boy was so anxious 
to try it, and to him it was such delightful fun, 
we took the chance. Directly mid-stream was 
reached, I wished we had not been so venture¬ 
some. However, it was too late to regain the 
shore and we flew through like lightning. My 
paddle scraped more than one jagged granite 
boulder before we jumped into a quiet reach 
of river 300 yards below. It was a wild ride 
and a dangerous one, but we both laughed as 
we took a look back, knowing the danger was 
behind and safely passed. 
This still water was alive with trout. They 
jumped and rolled on all sides of us, showing 
their fins, but the May flies were here, too, in 
countless myriads, and fish as carefully as he 
might, the Kid could not tempt a fish with his 
imitations. Stuck in the last page of the fly- 
book was a single dry-fly, an imitation of the 
spent May fly. This as a last resource was bent 
on to the leader, and it worked a sudden 
change. At every cast a trout was hooked, and 
in an incredibly short time thirteen beauties 
were brought to net. Time was flying, and 
still we had many miles ahead of us; but 
now the fishing fever was upon me, and I 
longed for the tug of a heavy fish in heavy 
water. 
Some twenty-five years, ago the first rise of 
a salmon at my silver-doctor fly down on the 
Medway River had lured me from all other 
members of the finny tribe, and the keen in¬ 
terest in trout fishing which, as a boy, I pos¬ 
sessed, departed then and there forever. Pres¬ 
ently, the gnawing at our stomachs proclaimed 
dinner time, and coming to a sandy cove, we 
paddled ashore to “bile” the kettle. While 
bending over the water cleaning some of our 
smallest fish for dinner, it suddenly occurred 
to me how very quiet the woods seemed—every 
singer was silent. Glancing up, the cause was 
apparent. A sparrow hawk had singled out a 
blackbird for his meal, and made a vicious 
swoop at him, while the pursued and . terrified 
bird made frantic efforts to dodge and reach 
a point of bushes across the river. At the 
second attempt the hawk struck his victim, 
scattering the black feathers of his plumage in 
all directions, and knocking the bird into the 
water. The hawk hovered above, afraid to dart 
again, for fear of getting into the stream him¬ 
self, while the terrified bird flopped along the 
surface, at last gaining a footing under some 
drift stuff a much bedraggled bird, whereupon 
the hawk flew off. During this little tragedy 
not a bird was heard. However, they soon 
forgot it, and presently the woods were filled 
with song again. 
[concluded next week.] 
THE TOP RAIL. 
Have you noticed how hard, practically im¬ 
possible, it is to get, at any price, a well broken 
bird dog? A raft of breeders or brokers ad¬ 
vertise “thoroughly broken” stock. All outdoor 
magazines have the temerity to carry these ad¬ 
vertisements, whereas if most of the magazine 
publishers knew a bird dog when they saw it, 
they would cease aggravating sportsmen with the 
copy that followed the workings of Phineas 
Taylor Barnum—humbug, for that’s what it 
is. 
I’ve fallen for the breeders’ bunk a good 
many times and once only have I found the dog 
bird wise. About the only way to get a sure 
enough hunting bird dog is to buy a pup from 
a known family tree and send it to a trainer, 
of whom there are a few left, practically all in 
the South, and before you do even this get 
advice from someone who knows, not from 
magazine information departments who play up 
their advertisers, but from a kennel editor or 
well-known dog man; otherwise you will be fat¬ 
tening the coffers of a man closely related 
morally to the proverbial horse trader. 
I have taken city gunners for ruffed 
grouse over one of my dogs, that I knew to 
be only partly broken, but who knew how I 
hunted, where he had found the birds on previ¬ 
ous occasions, and how I expected him to act. 
The sportsmen went into ecstasies over the 
brute, offering me a price greater than I 
intended asking, after six months’ more 
work on the pup. The temptation to sell was 
great, but I knew as sure as shooting that when 
that man, stranger to the dog, took the pup 
into strange country, he would be surprised and 
disappointed at the ignorance of that “almost 
human” bird dog. The temptation to a dog 
dealer would have been so great that he would 
have refused the offer and raised the ante. The 
question is whether or not the dealer would be 
wrong in selling on the demonstration when he 
knew in his own mind the dog was playing his 
lead well after many rehearsals on the same 
stage with the same setting, following the time 
worn cues. To my way of thinking, the dealer 
would have been wrong in selling at any price, 
but then even a dog dealer is human in spots— 
particularly hundred spots. 
Notice to Subscribers. 
We still have on hand some copies of the 
index for Volume LXXIX, (July-December, 
1912) and will be glad to send copies to our 
readers upon receipt of a postal. The index 
for the current volume (LXXX.) will be ready 
for distribution about July 15. In order to facili¬ 
tate delivery, requests should be received at this 
office before July i. 
Forest and Stream Publishing Co., 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
