On New Brunswick Waters. 
Having been a close student of railroad and 
steamship literature of the Guide-to-Sportsman 
variety, it seemed to me that New Brunswick 
was the land of promise for the angler, par¬ 
ticularly for the salmon angler; so, on July 
first I took the steamer Yale from Boston to St. 
John, seeking piscatorial adventure in a new 
country without a definite objective point. 
Returning to my stateroom after dinner, I 
found chalked upon my suit case the significant 
words, “See customs.” I made a rapid mental 
calculation. If the Canadian government im¬ 
posed the regular duty upon my lone bottle of 
Late in the afternoon, when the passengers 
were having a real swell time, word was passed 
along that the customs officers woidd examine 
the luggage, whereupon I descended into the 
ill-smelling hold, found my package containing 
sleeping bag and fishing togs, and arranged 
with the second officer, whom I found down 
there, to “see it through.” As I was about to 
return, a lady approached the officer, and, with 
tears in her voice, asked how long she would 
have to wait for her trunk to be examined. Said 
the officer cheerfully, “Well, ma’am, as there 
are about eight hundred trunks to be gone, 
through and only one man on the job. I should 
say in two or three hours; maybe longer.” 
Alas for my confiding nature! Only two 
years ago, reliant upon the glowing represen¬ 
tations of a railway guide book, I had jour¬ 
neyed to the “unfished” waters of Aroostook 
county in Maine, to find them not unfished bin 
fishless; and here I was caught again through 
a credulous faith in the same sort of turgid 
statements of another railway ad.-writer, whose 
fishing paradise book contains a long list of 
salmon and trout waters, names of guides, and 
charges for board. The mere detail that the 
public are barred from the salmon pools was 
doubtless overlooked. I had refrained from 
investing from thirty to fifty dollars in a sal¬ 
mon rod before leaving Boston, calculating to 
TWO FAMOUS FISHING POOLS ON THE NEPISIGUIT RIVER, IN NEW BRUNSWICK. 
Scotch, it would stand me in about twice as 
much as I could obtain an equally good article 
for in St. John. Also, should the customs po¬ 
tentate see fit to charge me the regular duty 
upon my nine-dollar cigars, they would stand 
me in about twelve cents each. Still, those who 
have smoked the near-tobacco cabbago smeller- 
inos prevalent across the border might not 
consider them high priced, in comparison, even 
at that. As to the Scotch, I certainly seemed to 
be carrying coals to Newcastle. An early visit 
of the customs inspector to my cabin relieved 
my apprehension, for he made no mention of 
these contraband articles, but, pointing to my 
rod case, said pleasantly: 
“Going fishing?” 
“Yes.” 
“How long do you expect to stay?” 
“About a month.” 
“How many rods have you?” 
I told him I had four, and he said he sup¬ 
posed he would have to charge me thirty per 
cent, duty on them, just as though I intended 
to sell them, which amount would be refunded 
when I returned to the States. He himself 
set a value upon them of fifteen dollars, but 
declined to- accept payment on the spot, saying 
I would “bump into” him before the end of the 
voyage, when I could settle the bill. 
“I will not wait—he may have the trunk!” 
she answered, and hurried up the stairway. 
I caught sight of the inspector the next 
morning as the boat arrived in the harbor of 
St. John, and suggested that we were to do 
business together. 
“Oh, about those rods?” he said. “I have 
decided not to charge you any duty on them, 
as you are only going to stay a few days.” 
The cigars were on me. 
Thus it is that the voyager, first scared by 
the bogey of the customs inspector—who, at 
his discretion, allows baggage to pass through 
without examination—is placed under an obli¬ 
gation to him when baggage is allowed to pass. 
My first business on landing was to set my 
watch one hour forward to agree with Atlantic 
time; then hunt for Mr. Knight, the Chief 
Forester of the Province, for advice where 
to go a-fishing. My way through the hilly 
streets of St. John was more or less inter¬ 
rupted by bumping into pedestrians, owing to 
my American habit of turning to the right. 
However, I finally hit the trail of the chief 
forester, who chanced to be taking an early car¬ 
riage drive about town, and to my inquiries 
as to trout and salmon fishing was informed 
that there was trout fishing to be had, but no 
salmon fishing was free in New Brunswick. 
buy one cheaper in New Brunswick; but I 
would not need any, it seemed. 
Mr. Knight advised me to go to Newcaistle 
on the Miramichi. I could not hope to buy the 
privilege of fishing this famous river, of course, 
for all the pools were leased, mostly to rich 
Americans—among them. Rockefeller, Morgan 
and Vanderbilt; but possibly I might find guides 
there who would take me trout fishing. So I 
went to Newcastle and sought accommoda¬ 
tion at what was advertised to be “the best 
hotel in Northern New Brunswick,” a shack 
facing a mud hole, that boasted “imported chefs 
and a telephone in every room.” There was 
a telephone in my room, but it connected only 
with the office; and after testing the table you 
would have said those imported food-spoilers 
ought to have been deported. 
I found, as I had been told, that there was no 
salmon fishing on the Miramichi for the out¬ 
sider at any price, nor yet on the Restigouche 
to the north, but possibly fishing privileges 
could be purchased on some of the pools of the 
remaining salmon rivers of the Province—the 
Nepisiguit, Tobigue or Jacquet, at, say, from 
$10 to $30 a rod per day. Or I might make a 
trip up the Ranuse River for trout, and maybe 
get a salmon. But since this trip involved a 
drive of forty-six miles, consuming six days 
