368 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept. 2, 1911. 
the stories of the guides as we kept to our 
way and promise ourselves that maybe, in an¬ 
other year- 
Another year had come, and before the slowly 
returning sun had begun to break icy fetters of 
winter, a letter full of inquiries and outlining a 
tentative plan was despatched to the helpful 
Dell. Soon came back an encouraging reply 
and enclosed was the letter which I have 
quoted. True, the trip had never been made 
before, but there was no reason why we should 
not succeed. There would doubtless be difficul¬ 
ties to surmount, and possibly some little hard¬ 
ships, but that was only to be expected. At in¬ 
tervals other letters were exchanged as some 
suggestion would occur, some important point 
required elucidation, or some question had to 
be determined. Similar trips had taught the 
wisdom of endeavoring to leave nothing to 
chance, and, as far as possible, to arrange all 
details beforehand, but finally all that could be 
reasonably anticipated had been decided. Close 
to the time of our departure we had learned with 
considerable regret that Charlie and Louis could 
not accompany us, but Lawrence was to go, and 
with him we were to have two guides, both new 
to us, but each warmly recommended by our 
friend Thomas. 
This year there could be only three in our 
party, the fourth companion on our former pil¬ 
grimage being sadly situated. His wife and 
debutante daughter had decreed, with the 
charming despotism of American women, that 
European travel would have to be substituted 
for his usual spring outing for trout. His senti¬ 
ments on the subject were partially indicated 
when he remarked one day, with some empha¬ 
sis, that he had just put $5,000 into a letter of 
credit and $1,000 more into negotiable checks 
and he would turn all this over to any fellow 
who would take his family abroad and let him 
go with us. The rest of us were all doctors— 
two surgeons and one medical man, all close 
friends and mutually congenial. Gurney, the 
youngest, albeit not too young, was a fashion¬ 
able practitioner with a large and exacting 
clientele, whose demands, however, did not pre¬ 
vent his superabundant energies finding plenty 
of outlets in various social and business inter¬ 
ests. He had had no inconsiderable experience 
as a fisherman, having caught salmon, trout and 
ouananiche in Newfoundland, Canada, Nova 
Scotia, Maine and Wisconsin. He was our of¬ 
ficial man-at-arms, carrying our only deadly 
weapons, a .25-caliber pistol and a camera. 
George, the eldest, but not too old, was a 
surgeon of recognized ability, dextrous and 
sound in his chosen work, sober and steady by 
temperament, but entirely too self-deprecatory 
and modest. A life devoted to winning his way 
in the world had left but little time for ex¬ 
tensive outings, so that he had enjoyed his first 
real experience in the North Woods the pre¬ 
vious year. Like the rest he was an enthusi¬ 
astic and skilled fisherman, but his piscatorial 
degree had been acquired in the college of salt¬ 
water fish. Finally there was the scribe. 
Enough may develop in his narrative sufficiently 
to acquaint the reader with him, but at the on¬ 
set he is going to confess, and to confess braz¬ 
enly and without apologies, that there are cer¬ 
tain months early in each year in which he 
practices surgery mainly for the chance it af¬ 
fords him to respond to the call of the red 
gods. On this venture he was of some pre¬ 
sumed value, since he had visited Nova Scotia 
for several years and was familiar with the 
Tusket River portion of the trip. Perhaps for 
this reason it was agreed that he should act as 
manager, treasurer and general chronicler. 
On the night of May 19, 1910, the Federal 
Express rushed Bostonward through the night, 
carrying our small party over the first stage of 
the journey. Boston doubtless means divers 
things to different people, but to us it is the one 
place on the American continent where a semi- 
sacred function may be performed with due 
ceremony and suitable material. I refer to the 
gastronomic delight of eating broiled live 
lobster, at the very least a large one, with 
“fixins,” per man. Do not scoff, gentle reader, 
or imagine that we are sodden gourmands, but 
take our word for it that nothing can approach 
this delectable crustacean as a pre-eminently 
sound foundation for a successful fishing trip 
to Nova Scotia. No misanthropy was ever 
born which can withstand it, no lingering pes¬ 
simism can overcome its gentle influence, it 
nestles tenderly and lovingly up to the solir 
plexus, its delicate colors of scarlet and pink 
and white inevitably tinge the point of view in 
similar warm lines, and even though the worst 
befalls in the subsequent crossing from Boston 
to Yarmouth and the mighty god Neptune de¬ 
mands his tribute, accept our assurance that 
there is no form of mal-de-mer so mild and in¬ 
deed almost pleasant as that arising, or rising, 
from broiled live lobster. 
That we did not include it as a course in the 
breakfast we dispatched directly after our ar¬ 
rival merely indicates that we are men of self- 
restraint and had due regard for the feelings 
of the waiter. However, after a morning de¬ 
voted to shopping for the few things which had 
been forgotten, to a few calls, and to some other 
matters of minor importance, we joyously fore¬ 
gathered with the lobster. By 1 o’clock we and 
our belongings were safely aboard the Prince 
George, which shortly afterward pulled out from 
Long Wharf and started down the busy and 
ever beautiful harbor. In Captain McKinnon 
and in the purser, Mr. Smith, we greeted old 
friends who spared no effort to make us per¬ 
fectly comfortable. As a native Nova Scotian, 
the captain has a sympathetic appreciation of 
the merits and shortcomings of sportsmen, and 
for us it is always an especial pleasure to cross 
with him. He has a fine fund of quiet anecdote 
and story for the chosen few who are the re¬ 
cipients of his hospitality in his own cabin. He 
hails from Chebogue, a little coastal town a few 
miles from Yarmouth on the south shore. Once 
in response to my question as to what the people 
in Chebogue did for a living the chief engineer, 
a blue-eyed youngster whose Scotch burr was 
inimitable, beat the captain out for a reply and 
said: “When business gets dull they tie a lan¬ 
tern to the old cow’s neck and turn her out on 
the beach on stormy nights.” The captain’s 
earnestness in repelling this calumny on his fel¬ 
low townsmen was almost as funny as the origi¬ 
nal remark. 
The trip to Yarmouth was pleasantly unevent¬ 
ful, as the sea was smooth and the weather de¬ 
lightfully warm and clear. We read and mooned 
and napped the afternoon away, soothed and 
rested by the soft salt air and the easy roll of 
the Prince George. During the evening Major 
Dodds, of the Royal Artillery of Montreal, sat 
late with us in the smoking room swapping tales 
of the out-of-doors. He had had many interest¬ 
ing adventures afield and afloat in the North 
woods, knew the ways of the wild thoroughly, 
and told his stories admirably. The next morn¬ 
ing but little was seen of the rock-girdled harbor 
of Yarmouth, since we were scarcely up at 6 
o’clock before the Prince George quietly stopped 
at the wharf. A hasty breakfast and we were 
ready to go ashore. A brief interview with the 
Canadian custom officials who passed our dun¬ 
nage without comment, save to cheerily wish us 
the best of luck; another interview with the 
deputy fish warden who, with the adroitness of 
long practice, parted each of us almost pain¬ 
lessly from a five dollar note for the fishing 
license, and we had complied with all needful 
requirements. We then stowed good clothes and 
suit cases at a convenient checking room, there¬ 
after to depend only upon those marvelous 
carry-alls, the duffle bags. 
The Nova Scotians are a wholesome people, 
more hospitable and kindly disposed toward the 
citizens of the great Republic than the inhabi¬ 
tants of any other section of Canada, save per¬ 
haps the Northwest portions. The social and 
business relations between the Maritime Pro¬ 
vinces and the United States are very close, ap¬ 
parently closer than those between some of the 
Provinces, and these would be even more inti¬ 
mate were it not for tariff walls on both sides 
of the line. But it is presumptuous to attempt 
to describe the people of this section by meager 
generalizations; it is far better to make it a 
strictly personal matter and say that we frankly 
like them, that we have never been treated with 
incivility, nor have we ever been imposed upon 
in Nova Scotia. 
Yarmouth is a charming old town of about 
7,000 inhabitants, resembling in many respects 
some of the old New England seaports, and like 
these has seen its growth checked by the sub¬ 
stitution of steam for sails. Its very lack of 
hustle and bustle and push, its quiet repose, are 
strongly commendable features to the weary citi¬ 
zen from the States seeking health, rest or rec¬ 
reation. The arrival of the boat from Boston 
is still an event worthy of the personal attention 
of nearly all the urchins in town, to say nothing 
of a representative gathering of their elckrs. 
As I have intimated, nothing hurries in Yar¬ 
mouth ; at least, nothing obviously hurries. The 
“Flying Blue-nose Express” was backed down to 
the wharf where it de'iberated delightfully over 
getting off, even after all the passengers, mail 
and express parcels were safely stowed away. 
Finally it crawled in leisurely fashion up through 
the lower town, past the wooden warehouses 
and the dilapidated frame houses to the main 
station, again to pause long enough for the most 
lingering of farewells. Then we were off for 
the eighty-five mile run to Annapolis, a four- 
hour trip. Shortly after leaving Yarmouth the 
neat and generally pretty farmhouses, each em¬ 
bellished with its regularly spaced orchard, dis¬ 
appeared; then followed mile after mi ; e of 
monotonous scenery nearly up to Weymouth. 
In the main the prospect showed a dreary suc¬ 
cession of low hills, closely strewn with black 
rocks and covered with a thick heathery growth 
of bushes, interspersed with swampy hollows 
filled with thickets of scrubby evergreens. Con¬ 
sidering the liberality with which the engineers 
