1044 
FOREST AND STREAM 
THE SHERIFF, THE SALMON AND A POACHER 
IT WAS A LIVELY MIXUP FOR A TIME BUT THE SHERIFF SUCCEEDED 
IN GATHERING IN THE FISH AND THE LAW BREAKER AS WELL 
By H. A. Smith, Sheriff of Digby, Nova Scotia. 
The water was right, the sky was right, and 
the south wind blew gently. 
It was the first day of the season. 
How sweet the click of the reel, as you pull 
off the neat enameled line and shoot it through 
the agate guides. How pleasant the old familiar 
“chuck” as it tightens at the end of the cast, the 
tinty “spat” as the Silver Doctor or Durham 
Ranger lights above the rips. The jump of the 
old rod as the line curls out!—who wouldn’t 
be a salmon fisherman? 
' The morning, as I have described it, was 
slightly overcast and quiet. I had waked just 
before daylight, and the purr of the river along¬ 
side the little hostelry had almost lulled me to 
sleep again. But the goodly smell of coffee, 
simmering on the big wood-stove in the kitchen 
below, proclaimed that Henri’s wife, the hostess, 
was already up and doing. 
I was out for a few days’ vacation in an 
isolated settlement in Nova Scotia. My private 
intention to investigate the extent of salmon 
poaching in the little stream that flows through 
the settlement was not generally suspected. I 
had concluded to limit my activities on this trip 
to teaching as many as possible of the natives a 
lesson by merely confiscating their nets. 
Dressed in hip rubbers, sweater and shooting 
coat, with my old fedora (christened by Henri 
the “lucky hat”) from its peg where it had hung 
all winter, I had hurried down to breakfast. 
ag* ■ V— - 
£ . ■' 
It Was a Whole 
That done, I was out of doors with the first 
glimmerings of morning. 
And just as the sun straggled up and sent a 
few level rays through the alders that lined the 
stream, before mounting into the haze that was 
to obscure it for the rest of the day, I reached 
the Upper Pool. 
_ For a while not a fish rose up. Then a fair 
sized river trout, out for breakfast, paid the 
penalty for his hunger and curiosity. I twitched 
him onto the greensward at the foot of the pool, 
and consoled myself for landing him on such 
heavy gear with the thought, “he will do for 
supper.” 
Then on down the rapids, to the head of the 
Mill Pool, I worked my way. Here were 
spruces, birches and alders growing in profusion, 
many of which overhung the river. The birds 
spring had brought north welcomed me with 
their cheeriest songs. 
Sport, though, more than the glories of re¬ 
awakened nature, was what I was out for. So 
pushing on through the tangle of alders, I waded 
out to the head of the pool. A clear cast was 
easy, provided you switched your line neatly 
overhead, clear of the trees. 
After one or two casts, the fly lit gradually 
nearer the alders and was being sucked under 
them, when out shot my salmon with a flash of 
silver sheen. Right over the fly, again and yet 
again, he rose short as it swam crosswise of the 
river. Then with a final lunge he dove straight 
for the bottom and was gone. 
Half Hour More Before the Rod Won and the Gaff 
Down, down, step by step, pulling off a little 
more line every few casts, and watching intently 
for another rise, I made my way, with a slight 
detour to follow the sand bar and stay in wad- 
able water. But nothing moved. Reeling in, I 
stood looking down stream, cogitating what to 
do, when a plump splash from behind caused me 
to wheel with a start. 
Two things arrested my attention: First, a 
broadening ring under the alders on the left 
bank. And there, directly across the stream, 
sat Gaspard, famed as one of the worst poachers 
on the river. 
“Good morning,” I remarked, “seen any 
salmon?” 
He lied with a face of clay: “No fish in de 
river yet; heap too early.” 
But I knew he had seen the rise, and I was 
perfectly sure that unless I hooked my fish that 
evening, a sweep-net would pull him on shore 
after nightfall. To prevent it, I would have to 
watch the pool until morning. 
Wading back until I got well above the scene 
of my first rise, I began to cast again, allowing 
the fly to fall just at the edge of the alders, 
where the current quickly sucked it under the 
bushes. 
At the very first cast he rose. It was more 
than a rise, though, it was a leap. Out and 
straight up he shot, showing every inch of his 
silver body. 
I rested him about two minutes, and then be¬ 
gan again. As the line straightened out, away 
from the alders, a wake as quick as lightning 
followed behind the fly, until well out from the 
shore, but sank as I stopped the rod to give him 
the hook. During the following half hour the 
old boy rose some twenty times. He would leap 
each time just over the fly, with a flash of yel¬ 
lowish white as he left the river’s bottom, and 
another when he turned to the light his gleaming 
side. 
Gaspard, my poacher friend, was watching 
every move, doubtless praying that I might not 
hook the fish. If he was, his prayer was an¬ 
swered. For it became more and more evident 
that the old boy was full of play, and did not 
intend to touch the fly. Finally I left him to 
his antics, and went down to fish the lower pool. 
It proved barren. But at its very bottom, where 
the river took a sweep to the left, on a bit of 
green some silver scales of salmo salar showed 
more plainly than words could, where at least 
one beauty had been netted and dragged on shore 
the night before. 
When darkness fell I had scored a blank. 
My mind was made up, though, to watch the 
pool—to make a night of it, with the hope that 
Slipped Home. 
I might hook my fish in the morning. So, leav¬ 
ing Henri’s again at dusk, my long-handled gaff 
slung across my back and a wicked feeling in me 
toward poachers and all their tribe, I crossed the 
upper foot bridge. Keeping well within the 
shelter of the spruces, I tip-toed down the 
stream, entering the thicket by a sheep path. 
Halfway down it, a hollow snort and a rush 
through the bushes ahead gave me an honest 
scare. But it was only the ungainly image of 
a sheared sheep against the blurred skyline that 
greeted my startled gaze, as she stood there and 
stared down at me from the hill. My nervous 
laugh frightened her away. 
Arrived at the pool, where I had left the 
salmon a few hours before, I chose a spot where 
anyone approaching the pool must cross my field 
of vision. There I found the end of a log to 
sit on. I lighted a cigarette, and began my vigil. 
With the voices of the day all hushed and 
still, how loud the rumble of the river sounded— 
swelling, dying and swelling up again. A sheet 
of fog rose like a trail of smoke, marking the 
river’s course where it hung low above the water. 
Bullfrogs in the shallow overflow tuned their 
bellows one by one. Lights in the farmhouse 
kitchens went out, and the tiny village slept. 
