The Newfoundland Codroys in 1908. 
For a second year on these two rivers we 
deemed it best to be on the Little River a little 
earlier than in 1907. Accordingly, we planned 
our arrival at Tompkins Brothers for 10 o’clock 
in the forenoon of the 26th of June, just fifty 
hours from Boston by rail and steamer. Stirred 
by a lively memory of last year’s'events on the 
streams, and an itching fancy painting a splash, 
a violent tug and a race for liberty, the train 
ride was none too interesting to be free from 
tediousness. The steamer ride was in the midst 
of dreams, so that Port Aux Basques came 
quickly out of the fog 
at 7 o’clock in the 
morning, and presently 
we found ourselves 
making the usual cash 
deposit on rods and 
camera with the new 
customs officer at that 
port. 
You feel a little safer 
with some cash in a 
locker where you can¬ 
not spend it for Jim’s 
attractive stock of rods, 
flies and leaders. “Jim” 
is one of the “brothers” 
and he is a faithful and 
attentive host, of Yan¬ 
kee enterprise. 
After a good break¬ 
fast in the dining car, 
we were prepared to 
strip for action and 
make a day on the 
river, renewing old as¬ 
sociations. Fifteen to 
forty minutes will place 
you on any of the salmon pools. We found that 
there had been ten days of premature fishing 
for a queer run of fish that puzzled the natives 
because the salmon were so lean that they 
seemed to have come back half satisfied with 
their capelin diet along shore. 
That first exceptional event was all over, so 
that the few sportsmen who had looked in upon 
the river while it was on had either scattered off 
up to Robinson’s or were loafing around wait¬ 
ing for the usual first run of the season. 
Newcomers can never be perfectly satisfied 
with reports, so we took a day’s careful look 
at the various runs and pools. The water was 
decidedly low, and not a fish could be discovered 
rising or fanning the bottom. The next day we 
hitched up with two college boys, a doctor from 
all around the world, and, with our guide Joe, 
made a trip into the Codroy Mountains up a 
brook to Campbell’s Lake. Here we found the 
correct idea of the foreign name tarn. 
“A lofty precipice in front, 
A silent tarn below.” 
We struck hard rubbing through an imperfect 
trail on our way to the brook, for be it known 
that Newfoundland woods are stunted tangles 
of snarly spruce and balsam limbs that stretch 
out from very modest trunks. Once upon the 
brook we were crowded from the banks by the 
same crooked snarl of low growth, so that we 
jumped and slipped from stone to ledge, while 
highly-colored brook trout darted about in every 
considerable pool, strongly suggesting that we 
were going away from home. But we were bent 
on our errand and resisted temptation with many 
an au revoir against our return. Six ounces 
weight was not so good as the better things 
ahead in the lake where it was predicted that 
two or three quarter-pounders at a cast would 
reward our struggles. 
THE FORKS POOL ON THE GRAND CODROY. 
At length we sighted the promised water 
where our weary legs were soon following the 
shore of a lake about a half mile toward the 
further end. We had been told that there a 
stream came down from a bank of snow and ice 
over a precipitous ledge far up on the moun¬ 
tain side. The low spruce and closely woven 
alders hung out over the rocky shore so that 
it was difficult to skirt the lake without making 
a misstep and taking a bath in that deep, clear 
and cold water. 
After many a grumble at the unshaven face 
of nature, and many a hair-breadth escape from 
a chill bath, we thrust our shoulders through 
the alders and stood upon a very narrow spit 
of pebbles at the mouth of the brook. Far up 
behind us was the backbone of the mountains 
from whose rugged face came the snow water 
spreading out white over the ledges. This back¬ 
bone sent out gray ribs on each side of the lake, 
completely inclosing it, except at its foot, where 
the lake finds an outlet to the sea. We were 
no welcome visitors. Over a small island near 
our fishing place, a flock of gulls screamed a 
continuous protest against this disturbance of 
their nesting place. 
Fish came in doubles like a flash of yellow 
light. Clear, cold water makes trout wary, but 
never lazy, and it takes a snappy alertness of 
mind and muscle to forestall that lightning re¬ 
turn to the bottom. Back casts must be well 
measured where bushes look over your shoul¬ 
der, and patience must have its perfect work 
upon the temper. The primitive conditions 
added flavor and zest to the sport, so that we 
were satisfied, even though no full pounders 
rewarded our efforts. After clearing away the 
bushes enough to furnish space for a fire to 
make some tea and toast, we removed some 
enormous inner cravings, and backward turned 
our course to struggle 
with the brook, wast¬ 
ing many a costly store 
bug on the overhang¬ 
ing branches. “Enough, 
enough!” we all ex¬ 
claimed as we reached 
the piazza of Afton 
Farm. A man must be 
running a fish market 
who would not be happy 
with sixty yellow-bellies 
filling a fifteen - pound 
basket. 
It was no self-denial 
to observe the Sabbath 
scrupulously, for there 
was no perceptible 
temptation in the river. 
Monday for us was not 
a day of rest, but of 
close observation; Tues¬ 
day found us down at 
tide water, off the mouth 
of Campbell’s Brook, 
filling the grass with 
nice brook trout until 
we gathered them on a stringer to the number 
of sixty. It was lively music and all with flies. 
Just a few splashes of salmon told us that they 
were waiting to come up stream, when the feel 
of fresh water encouraged them. One actually 
tried twice at a fly, but with little energy. The 
doctor from all around the world sang us a 
round of merry barrack songs as we paddled 
home. The college boys had been listening about 
the pools during the day and told us at night 
that there was a promising arrival in several 
places. They were going far north to Hawkes 
Bay and did not mind scouting for our benefit, 
having just stopped over to await the trip of 
the steamer from Bay of Islands. 
On Wednesday breakfast was none too early, 
and the first breeze up the stream found us at 
Alder Run, where the river narrows and curves 
into a bank, opposite which is a wide bar of 
sand and pebbles upon which your back cast will 
break several hooks a day, be you ever so care¬ 
ful. Joe crawled out to the end of the rail 
fence and peered over the bank, then wormed 
his way back and stood with shining eyes as he 
held up four fingers. His hair is black and 
kinky, for which his French ancestry is to blame, 
