548 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 7, 1911. 
while others we could see further down the 
falls. We walked out a light trestle to visit 
the nearest stand and were welcomed by its oc¬ 
cupant, Mr. Brayne, who let us sit and watch 
him, while he told the story of the gaspereau. 
The method employed in this curious form of 
fishing is substantially the same all along the 
Tusket. During the low water of the late sum¬ 
mer a short sluice is built of smooth logs along 
the edge of a rapid, and sometimes when well 
out in the current a little wing of logs and 
stones is added to direct the fish into the nar¬ 
row channel. Through the sluice-way the water 
rushes at a depth of three or four feet. During 
the spring and early summer countless numbers 
of the gaspereau. or kyack, or alewives, as they 
are variously called—a member of the herring 
family—run up the Nova Scotian rivers to 
spawn. The fisherman sits by the side of the 
sluice and using a large dip net with a six-foot 
handle sweeps down the current toward the on¬ 
coming fish. Apparently they make their rushes 
up stream in little schools, as the dipping net 
would go through many times without result, 
then up would come anywhere from three or 
four to a dozen wriggling, silvery fish. These 
are dumped into the flat-bottom end boat al¬ 
ways within reach, and usually the next scoop, 
if quick enough, takes a few stragglers from 
that school. The dipping proceeds with mo¬ 
notonous regularity, a minute or two interven¬ 
ing, for hour after hour. Mr. Brayne, who not 
only dipped himself but also dealt in the catch 
of others, to'd us that, in the main, gaspereau 
are iced and sold to the deep-sea fishermen to 
be used for bait, especially for halibut, and that 
they brought about seventy-five cents a hundred. 
An average day’s catch would run from one to 
three hundred fish, though sometimes as many 
as fifteen hundred were taken by one man. 
At several places on the lake were anchored 
salmon nets and on the next morning’s run be¬ 
low the falls we saw a good many more. Those 
above were there through a rather free interpre¬ 
tation of the law, since it is a very rare occur¬ 
rence for the tide water to back far enough up the 
falls to flow into the lake. Day and night these 
deadly traps awaited the moving salmon, and 
from their number and distribution we marveled 
that enough fish got through to propagate their 
kind, to say nothing of enough to entertain 
sportsmen. It is true that for about thirty-six 
hours each week the nets are supposed to be 
lifted, and it must be due to this salutory re¬ 
striction on the market fishermen that any of 
these lordly fish are left at all. The whole 
matter of netting seemed to us extremely un¬ 
fortunate and based on a penny-wise-pound- 
foolish policy. Every one of the little Nova 
Scotian rivers are natural salmon streams, and 
with the abolishment of netting, the insistence 
on fish ladders, and some wise supervision they 
could be made as interesting to fly-fishermen 
as the New Foundland waters. Taking into 
consideration the easy access from the United 
States, the full development of the possibilities 
of these rivers could readily make every salmon 
a hundred times as valuable to the provincial 
people as it is now. 
That night we had our last meal as an un¬ 
broken party. George and Gurney, who had 
been showing slight indications for a day or 
two that thoughts of the flesh pots of Egypt 
were coming to the fore, had arranged with Mr. 
Brayne to sleep and breakfast at his house, but 
I, who never yet have been surfeited by the 
joys of the woods, postponed the inevitab'e for 
another night at least. 
The next morning I was awakened by un¬ 
seemly chatter outside the tent. Turning out, 
I learned that a salmon had met his doom in the 
net which was stretched in the current out near 
the boom. Even as I stood at the tent flap 
and gazed across to the net another salmon 
struck it, and for a brief while the violent con¬ 
vulsive bobbing of the corks showed the tragedy 
which was being enacted underneath. Presently 
from somewhere up the lake came the rhythmic 
sound of oarlocks and the owner of the net 
rowed down to secure his spoil, then coming 
our way and landing, he laid upon the grassy 
sward two fine fresh-run salmon, one of nearly 
fifteen pounds, and the other weighing about 
twelve. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t 
need to. The color and sheen and graceful 
shapeliness of those splendid fish were potent 
magic far beyond his powers. Unmindful of 
the distance and the trouble entailed, and per¬ 
haps of some other things, I determined to take 
one of those beautiful fish home with me, and 
for a paltry sum the larger fish became my 
property. The guides, with no greater re¬ 
sistance to temptation, took the smaller one at 
bargain rates, while later in the morning below 
the falls even Gurney, he of the salmon rod, 
fell from grace and bought a salmon. 
Up the road through the drizzling rain—for 
it had commenced to rain about daybreak—I 
carried my prize to Mr. Brayne’s house, there 
to find my companions clad in the garb of the 
city, though some concession to the weather 
might be noted in the superimposed oilskins. 
1 ruly the yearn for civilization was hard upon 
them! The matter of transporting the salmon 
was laid before Mr. Brayne, whereupon with 
hammer and saw he quickly made an admirable 
box neatly fitted with a handle, and then, send¬ 
ing his small lad off to the meadow for moss 
and to the ice-house for ice, the three of us 
securely and, as it afterward proved, successfully, 
packed the salmon for the long journey home. 
In the meantime the guides carried the heavy 
things to the foot of the falls and ran the 
canoes through while we stood on the porch 
and watched for the last time their clever tac¬ 
tics. We were now on tide water with the 
ocean only a few miles away. The river wound 
considerably, was not particularly interesting, 
and presented no difficulties, except we had 
some trifling trouble getting over another log 
boom. Presently there came in sight the iron 
bridge of the Halifax and Southwestern Rail¬ 
road, and here we stepped ashore for the last 
time from those sturdy little craft which had 
carried us so well from Roger’s Landing 
through the wilderness to Tusket. 
We had a long and dreary wait that rainy 
day before the teams for Yarmouth could be 
hurried over for 11s. The general store soon 
ceased to entertain 11s, the great saw-mill where 
rough logs were seized and turned into boards as 
in the twinkling of an eye only served to hold our 
interest for a little while. The only pleasant 
feature of that long wait was the good dinner 
we got at a charming old-fashioned house kept 
by the widow of a sea captain, where the atmos¬ 
phere of gentle refinement and perfect courtesy 
made us feel like honored guests. Finally two 
three-seated buckboards arrived, and while the 
six men of our party and the driver occupied 
one, our equipment was carried on the other. 
The arrangement for the canoes was ingenious 
and so satisfactory that no time was lost in 
transporting them. Two were placed on cross 
pieces of scantling resting on the seats. This 
brought them over the wheels, but well above 
them. The third was placed on top of the 
backs of the seats and all three were securely 
lashed. This left plenty of room for all the 
other dunnage on the body of the wagon. 
The drive of nine miles to Yarmouth over a 
good road was soon accomplished, and it was 
not long before we were settled at the hotel. 
I shall not dwell upon the joy—the perfect, 
blithering, blissful joy—which we took in the 
hot baths, the clean clothes, the comfortable 
surroundings, the good beds, and last, but not 
least, the excellent meals at real tables with 
white napery and trim waiting maids. 
The following day, June 10, three guides were 
seen off on the “Flying Bluenose,” with their 
knuckles sore from hearty hand grips and their 
ears ranging with praise and appreciation, and 
a’ong in the afternoon three clear-eyed, deeply- 
tanned men walked with springy step up the 
gang-plank of the Prince George. 
[conclusion.] 
THE TOP RAIL. 
A remarkable transformation has occurred on 
the Bowery, on Park Row, and on other streets 
of New York city where quiet entertainment has 
until recently been afforded those that are fond 
of poking about curio shops. The scores of 
pawn and junkshops along these thoroughfares 
have always been attractive, in a way, to lovers 
of firearms; but now they no longer interest. 
The Sullivan law has changed all this. You can 
walk from Brooklyn bridge as far as you like 
up these streets and you wiil not see a revolver 
or a pistol; at least I have not seen one there 
since the law went into effect. Guns and rifles 
are in sight, but no small firearms. Gone are the 
potmetal “revolvers’’ knocked down to 98 cents; 
the imported “bulldogs” are in safe places far 
from the prying eyes of Central Office men; the 
thousands of revolvers carried by policemen in 
Colonel Roosevelt’s time, and to be seen in num¬ 
bers in every junk shop in recent years have 
probably been dumped on Middle West cities; 
the occasional army and target revolvers are put 
away. Bargain sales in revolvers are things of 
the past, at least in these quarters. 
And the element which, it is alleged, the 
friends of the law sought to disarm—has it been 
affected? Of course not. The police profess to 
know all such persons and their haunts and 
habits. They are still doing business at the old 
stand, and they have not as yet applied for per¬ 
mits. Grizzly King. 
