38o 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 6, 1909. 
going and coming, besides the hire of two men 
at three dollars a day each, I thought it wiser 
to try some other place. But Fate, in the form 
of the Intercolonial Railway, decreed that I 
should not hurry about it. Some of my luggage 
had been left at St. John, and I must perforce 
wait twenty-four hours at Newcastle for its 
recovery. 
Let me here caution the American tourist in 
the Provinces to look after his own luggage 
and not to rely, as at home, upon getting it at 
its destination simply because it happens to be 
properly checked. The package overlooked by 
this railway was likewise overlooked by two 
other New Brunswick railways; namely, the 
Caraquet and the Temiscouta. Travelers in 
Canada, it seems, are expected to personally 
see that their luggage is cared for by the rail¬ 
way people, and by them properly delivered; 
but if the Canadian methods of caring for bag¬ 
gage are a tri.de old-fashioned, the train service 
of the larger roads is excellent. We Americans 
are prone to speak boastfully of our train 
service as compared with that of foreign coun¬ 
tries, particularly in the matter of speed. But 
in this respect we are completely outclassed by 
the Canadians. For example, there is a train 
which arrives at Campbellton on the Inter¬ 
colonial at 20:45—that is, at 8:45 P. M. This 
train gets to a station thirty-four miles north 
at 20:46, thirty-four miles in one minute. That 
would seem to be traveling. This is accounted 
for, however, by the fact that the railway time 
schedule changes at Campbellton from Atlantic 
to Eastern time—one hour slower. 
Recovering my lost luggage, I started for 
Campbellton the next afternoon in quest of 
the lessee of the Jacquet River, from whom 1 
hoped to be able to hire the privilege of fishing 
for salmon. As there was no dining car on the 
train, which was due to reach Campbellton 
shortly before midnight, I got off at Bathurst, 
about half-way between Newcastle and Camp¬ 
bellton, in order to dine at a seasonable hour. 
This change in my programme I shall always 
consider fortunate. Bathurst is on the Bay of 
Chaleur, into which flows the Nepisiguit, one 
of the most famed of Canadian salmon rivers. 
At the hotel where I stopped, I was told that 
there was good trout fishing on the Poke- 
mouche stream, thirty-five miles to the east. 
Next morning I proceeded there on the Cara¬ 
quet railway. This two-streaks-of-rust is 
equipped with an ancient locomotive that looks 
like an exaggerated coal-scuttle, and three de¬ 
crepit coaches. It makes the round trip of 
fifty miles once daily. The thirty-two miles to 
Burnsville, the nearest station to the Poke- 
mouche stream, was achieved in three hours 
and a half; but that it was achieved at all, with¬ 
out mishap, seemed nothing short of a miracle. 
My luggage, checked for Burnsville, was 
carried to the end of the route, necessitating 
my remaining a full day there before proceeding 
to my destination; but I sent word ahead to re¬ 
tain the services of one Csesar Boudreau, habi¬ 
tant of the Pokemouebe stream settlement and 
registered guide. The next day I was driven 
six miles to Ctesar's residence, only to find that 
he had gone into the woods to lumber. I after¬ 
ward learned that the title of guide, authorized 
by the license issued to Monsieur Boudreau, 
was honorary rather than actual in its effect, as 
I proved to be the second person who had ever 
sought bis services in an official capacity. Al¬ 
though disappointed in engaging Cfesar, I was 
able to hire his brother Joe to guide me, and 
was made welcome as a boarder in the 
Boudreau domicile. It was, to be sure, a 
humble abode, consisting of two rooms only, 
where dwelt Caesar and his wife and si.x chil¬ 
dren, ranging in age from fourteen months to 
nine years; but 
“Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure.” 
I have never known happier folk, nor more 
industrious. The six children boasted one pair 
of shoes between them, the treasure of the 
oldest, who sacredly preserved them for the 
bitter winter weather. From sunrise to late 
into the night did Madame Boudreau delve 
and labor for her flock, and Caesar, the hus¬ 
band, would come in from the forest after dark, 
where since five o’clock in the morning he, too, 
had been hard at work, yet always with a 
cheery smile and, like his good wife and her 
brood, wdshful to extend his humble hospitality 
PLAYING A NEPISIGUIT RIVER SALMON. 
to the stranger wdtbin his gate. Nine children 
had blessed the Madam during her ten years 
of married life, of which six w'ere living, a 
record referred to with pride by the parents. 
The family never had and never required the 
services of a doctor. No one in that settlement 
of seven houses had ever been sick. Csesar and 
his wife spoke a little English, but the children 
understood and spoke only French. One French 
newspaper from Quebec, a month old, and a 
year-old copy of an American magazine formed 
the family library. 
Early next morning Joe Boudreau canoed me 
up the Pokemouche, a deep, clear, sandy-bot¬ 
tom stream, twenty yards wdde, full of pools 
and heavily fringed w'ith great pines and hem¬ 
locks. 
Trout! I never saw anything like it, and they 
W'ere fairly crazy for the fly. I have frequently 
seen waters where trout w'ould break the sur¬ 
face after sunset for perhaps half an hour— 
scores of them rising at a time—but here they 
could be counted by the hundred, perhaps by 
the thousand. I finished the day’s fishing with 
but a single fly on my leader, yet I booked 
more than three hundred, at least one hundred 
of which weighed over half a pound each. I 
threw; back all but fourteen of the largest, each 
of which weighed more than a pound. Return¬ 
ing home after sunset, w'e stopped near one of 
the larger pools to view' the, to me, marvelous 
sight of water fairly boiling with rising trout, 
the chug-chug-chug of their breaks sounding 
like the unbroken exjdosions of a running auto¬ 
mobile. 
For the better part of a w'eek I fished most 
of the seventeen miles of the Pokemouche 
stream, and with unvarying success. As I could 
not get, a tent, I did not try the mouth of the 
stream, since to do so would entail going over 
a four-mile rapid and camping out over night; 
but I am told that much larger trout were to 
be taken there than where I had been. 
Returning to Bathurst. I sought Henry 
Bishop, the principal lessee of the Nepisiguit 
River. Perhaps if I could not have the sport 
of salmon fishing myself, I might be permitted 
the poor satisfaction of seeing the other fel¬ 
low have it. Mr. Bishop, in addition to being 
the chief game and fish warden of this region, 
is the postmaster of Bathurst. He proved to 
be amiable and confirmed the truth of my in¬ 
vestigations that there was no free salmon 
fishing in the Province, but exploded the theory 
that outsiders could not lease fishing privileges 
inexpensively; in fact, he made a practice of 
leasing the pools on the Nepisiguit—and there 
can scarcely be better—for a dollar a day per 
rod. It seems that a party had been fishing in 
some of the best pools at the Indian reservation, 
a dozen miles up the river, without having 
raised a salmon, but Mr, Bishop declared that 
since the w'eather and water conditions w'ere 
fast changing, the chances were that the luck 
would also change, and suggested that I try 
some of the pools myself. Here, now, was a 
stroke of good fortune. I had salmon flies, 
leaders, line and reel, but no rod. “Easy 
enough,” said Mr. Bishop; “I will lend you 
mine.” 
A team conveyed me to the Mic-Mac Indian 
reservation the followdng morning, where I se¬ 
cured the services of a couple of dusky braves, 
w'ho placed me in the middle of a bircb-bark 
canoe and pushed me out into the rapid current 
of the Nepisiguit. Though skilled in casting 
with a light trout rod, it required nearly an 
hour’s practice to make a fair cast with Mr. 
Bishop’s two-handed one. When my Indian 
guides found that I had at last the hang of it 
they pushed up stream to a pool w'here a sal¬ 
mon had been seen jumping the day before. 
At length the canoe was brought to a stand¬ 
still by the setting poles, and I was told to cast 
in the pool. The river all looked alike to me; 
but I followed instructions and cast my Jock 
Scott where the pool w'as said to be. Again 
and yet again I cast, w'hen suddenly I had a 
strike that fairly sent my heart into my mouth. 
I yanked. Then under water I felt a long 
steady pull. My companions shouted, “You 
got him! Don’t pull too hard! There he goes!” 
Up came the salmon full length out of the 
water, four feet long if he was an inch. Then 
a plunge into the water, and he was off with a 
rapidity that made the reel sing. I gave him 
the butt and let him go; but my hundred yards 
of tarpon line was nearly run out before he 
slackened and I reeled in taut. Fifteen times 
he leaped clear of the water, and twice he 
crossed the swift and broad river. For three- 
quarters of an hour it was a battle royal, with 
no odds. When at last his struggles grew 
weaker and I had him coming, we put in shore; 
