Jake Henshaw’s Midshipmites 
By EDMUND F. L. JENNER 
Editor’s Note. —Mr. Tenner, whose stories of woods life in Nova Scotia have appeared from time to time in Forest and Stream, and whose portrait we reproduce 
in this issue, is a native of Glamorganshire, Wales. His age is forty-three years. He was educated at the Magnus School, Newark-on-Trent, and at Clare College, 
Cambridge, and came to Nova Scotia in 1S85. In 1S98 he married Miss Thomson, the adopted daughter of the late Sir William Young, the Chief Justice of Nova Scotia. 
Mr. Jenner is an apothecary by profession. He is Examiner in Pharmacy for his Government, Vice-President of the Provincial Pharmaceutical Society, a Captain in 
the Seventh Canadian Artillery. In addition, he is, and has been for sixteen years, a provincial game warden, and by choice, as well as in the line of his duty in the 
latter capacity, passes all his spare time in the woods, hence the true ring and deep interest that attaches to all the articles he has written for Forest and Stream. 
‘W 'VE guided all sorts and conditions of men, 
B from the Governor-General of Canada 
down. Some I parted from on more than 
friendly terms; others I’ve no use for, and 
they’ve no use for me. But the queerest ex¬ 
perience I ever had was with a couple of little 
midshipmites I pickel up in old Peter Sinclair’s 
store. 
“It’s a good many years ago, one of them is 
dead now, poor fellow, and the other one is 
across the water, but I guess he hasn’t for¬ 
gotten the time he caught his first salmon in 
Nova Scotia, and rode out on a flat car to 
do it. They gave me those two little threppeny 
pieces I keep in my medal case. Light your 
pipe, and I’ll tell you the story. 
“This river was quite different then to what 
it is now. There were more jams in it, and a 
lot more bushes and trees along the sides. I 
used to watch the water mighty close, along 
about the beginning of August, for just as 
sure as it came a high tide, and maybe a bit 
of a rain, there would be a run of sea trout, and 
a few little salmon.” - 
Uncle Jake settled himself back in his easy chair, 
stroked the blue Maltese cat in his lap, and 
gazed dreamily at the fire as he spoke. 
“It was a few years before you came to this 
part of the world that I got those little bits of 
money. We had a big freshet that year, just 
after the hay was all gathered in from the upper 
meadows. The water fell away all day Satur¬ 
day and Sunday. On Monday it was down 
under the banks. On Tuesday I went to town 
to try to buy three or four small salmon flies. 
It’s a hard matter to ‘fly’ salmon in this river. 
The only flies I know to be sure shot are the 
Durham-ranger and the Jock-Scott. I hadn’t a 
ranger or a Scott left; so I took a freight train 
down the line, and bright and early I turned up 
at Peter Sinclair’s store. Peter had the flies, 
all right, but there were two young fellows pick¬ 
ing them over when I went in. It was one of 
Peter's failings that he could never be civil to 
man, woman or child if he had a chance to be 
rude. I stood back for a few minutes, but the 
construction train I reckoned to go back on was 
due to leave in a quarter of an hour, so I said 
very civilly to the young fellows, ‘I’ve got to 
catch a train, and I want a couple of them flies 
before I go. Do you mind letting me make my 
choice?’ 
“ ‘Go ahead and get what you want as long 
as you pay cash for it.’ says Peter. ‘Them boys 
has been picking over the flies for ten minutes, 
and so far they haven’t paid me one cent, and 
my store isn’t swept out yet.’ 
‘‘I reached over and picked out four flies. 
‘These’ll do me, Mr. Sinclair,’ says I. ‘Now, 
gentlemen, if you want to know the best flies 
to use, I can maybe show you.’ I reached 
over again and picked out half a dozen, the 
same as I’d chosen myself. Both boys’ faces 
were as red as fire at Peter’s rudeness. I felt 
sorry for them, for they seemed mannerly little 
chaps. The elder one took a gold sovereign 
out of his pocket and threw it on the counter. 
Peter gave him three dollars back, which was 
seventeen cents less than he ought to have done. 
I asked him what he was giving for sovereigns, 
and he made the change right. 
“ ‘I’m much obliged to you for your informa¬ 
tion,’ says the biggest boy, when we were out¬ 
side. ‘What is the matter with that man? He’s 
positively insulting.’ 
“ ‘The poor creature was born that way,’ I 
replied. ‘He means no harm. Now, where are 
you boys going to use those flies? Maybe I 
can tell you something about the water here.’ 
“ ‘There’s a man called Jake Henshaw, who 
used to fish with Admiral Davis when he was on 
the station. We got a chance to run up here, 
and thought he might be willing to take us 
out for a day. The Admiral speaks very highly 
of him, and so does Lady Davis.’ 
“ ‘My name is Jake Henshaw,’ I replied. ‘I 
had a letter from th’e Admiral at Easter. If you 
want a day, you can have one, and you’re more 
than welcome, if you’re friends of his. We 
haven’t any time to lose, however. I’m going 
home on a construction train. She pulls out 
very soon, and you’ve got to double up if you 
want to catch her. I’ve got stacks of rods, 
reels, lines and trout flies. I can fit you out all 
right; but you’ll have to ride in the caboose, 
along with the working crowd.’ 
“ ‘Let’s go,’ says the younger boy; ‘they can’t 
hang us for going up on a train instead of driv¬ 
ing in a carriage. They won’t miss us at the 
hotel for an hour or two yet and I’d like to see 
things as they really are for once in my life.’ 
“I took stock of the boys while they were 
talking. They were dressed in the plainest way, 
but their clothes were of the best. I could 
tell they were gentlemen before ever I spoke to 
them. ‘Come on,’ says I, and we made a run 
for the depot and just caught the construction 
train pulling out. There was an awful mixed- 
up gang on board. The line was in bad shape 
after the rain, and men were scarce; so they’d 
gathered in niggers and dagos, and even In¬ 
dians. The conductor knew me, and let us 
through on to one of the flat cars, and we sat 
there in the dust, but we were clear of the smell 
of bad tobacco and niggers that there was in 
the caboose. Every two or three miles we’d 
slow down and let off a gang of men, three or 
four cars, and a lot of tools. It took con¬ 
siderable time to run the empty cars back into 
the ballast pits. It was all of nine o’clock when 
we got to my place, and the conductor let us 
off. ‘Now, boys,’ says I, ‘the chances are that 
you’ve had no breakfast. I haven’t got much 
to offer you, but if you want a bite before we 
try the river, just say so, and I’ll do the best I 
can for you.’ 
“The way those boys went into the rye bread 
and the cold pickled pork was a caution. It's 
a queer thing how some people are built. I 
had a low-down hired man who lived on salt 
gaspereau and cornmeal, and slept on straw for 
nine months every year. He wouldn’t touch 
rye bread. He wanted white bread, and he 
wanted it hot. He called rye bread ‘pig feed,’ 
and we dasn’t have it on the table when he was 
round. Well, them boys cleaned up the best 
part of a loaf of rye bread and left a loaf of 
white bread untouched. They eat about a pound 
of pork apiece, and a big plate of cornmeal 
porridge and maple molasses. It did me good 
to see them eat. Then I sorted out two good 
rods for them, and a spare one in case of acci¬ 
dent. While I was getting things ready the boys 
looked round this room and saw my medal 
case. ‘So you’ve been in Egypt,’ says the 
younger one; ‘what regiment were you in?’ I 
told them that I went up the Nile with the 
Canadian voyageurs, and drew a pension of 
fifty-two cents a day. They got my rifle and 
gun down, and the moment they put their hands 
