740 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Nov. 7, 1908. 
as also for his sparkling eyes. We read the 
meaning of his parted fingers, and from the 
pebbly bar slowly began our approaches to the 
right location. The fly would touch the surface 
a little too heavily, the lighter the better. Keep 
working to light casting and have confidence in 
very small hooks. 
But away with advising. We had not time 
for many experiments; he was on, and on 
strong, and out before our eyes he burst into 
the light. Next down the run he rushed a full 
hundred feet while the reel gave forth its cheer¬ 
ful whirr. Joe was following him with the gaff. 
He was too anxious; my wrist had a long siege 
to endure before it could exhaust such a bright, 
fresh fish as this. Many a run he made after 
he seemed ready to give in; many a time the 
gaff’s approach stirred him to renewed efforts. 
How could that little bit of steel stand such 
leaping into the air? The train whistled, came 
in, went on, and still the fight was fresh and 
strong. When at last the gaff brought him to 
the sand, my watch said forty-five minutes, and 
my prickling fingers and weary wrist said half 
a day. A dozen Fourth of July rockets would 
not have fully celebrated our enthusiasm. 
We then went up to the old lunching ground 
on Red Bank, steeped some tea, toasted some 
bread and strengthened ourselves. We were not 
fishing for the market, so why be in a hurry? 
This was the first fruit of the season and de¬ 
served a fire and a sacrifice. While the fire was 
crackling and the water coming to a boil, I lim¬ 
bered up my fingers and warmed the water. 
“Let the fire go and the water burn; I’ve got 
another on. Gracious! how regardless of my 
hunger are his maneuvers.” The tea pot was 
forgotten and the gaff was ready. Thirty 
minutes to a second and he lay by the side of 
the other one and then the scales fixed them 
at ten and nine pounds. I was now content to 
say, “To our muttons” and to chew it without 
other needed relish than the forenoon’s achieve¬ 
ment. 
No more that day except a brook trout that 
weighed three pounds, and three-quarters. No¬ 
body else got livened enough to shake the bush 
Wednesday, so I had the glory all to myself. A 
few heavy fish ran up into Red Bank and stayed 
there with contemptuous indifference until the 
glorious fourth, then one of them helped me 
observe the day properly, but he was not a very 
large one. At the Home Pool Run a ten- 
pounder rewarded a newly arrived comrade on 
his first day at salmon fishing. Then Little 
River shut itself up like a clam shell for three 
months, the drouth sticking closer and closer 
and sending us up twelve miles to the Grand 
Codroy as our only hope. But we were fairly 
well rewarded there at the Forks, in Seven Mile 
and Big Salmon and Winters pools. The better 
fishing there is in June; after June the fish get 
stale and grow dark and thinner. We caught 
an eleven-pounder in the Forks Pool that gave 
us an hour’s anxious fighting. Here the river 
is quite a hundred feet wide and the pool about 
three hundred feet long, and because of that 
the chances for long runs are greater than in 
most pools. It was quite exciting to see the 
line enter the water about a hundred feet away 
and the fish come into the air two hundred feet 
off. One could hardly credit the exclamation 
of the gaffer, “That is your fish.” 
The drouth was so extreme that all experi¬ 
ence was broken in the location of the salmon. 
They schooled to the number of from forty to 
a hundred fish, large and small, in a half dozen 
pools, and it was plain to see that scores of 
them would run above twenty pounds. The 
water was not dark nor deep enough to conceal 
them. Two gentlemen from Schenectady, N. Y., 
Messrs. Upp and Jones, who had never before 
cast for a salmon, caught some twenty-five fish 
at the Forks Pool in about ten days. They 
pitched their tents on the bank, and that, accord¬ 
ing to the conventional rule there, gave them 
the exclusive chance at the pool. 
Seven Mile Pool—that number of miles above 
the Forks—was alive with very large fish, but 
they paid slight attention to flies until the rain 
came, the last of July, when for several days 
some rich fishing was had. 
We were on the Little Codroy at that time, 
r 
A TWENTY-POUNDER FROM RED BANK, ON THE LITTLE 
CODROY. 
and when the water subsided measurably, six 
fish made fast in one day, three of which we 
saved. It was cruel to my ambition to have 
that thirty-five-pounder sulk at Red Bank, and, 
when stoned off the bottom, rush into the air 
with a rip and tear. Then that twenty-pounder 
knew what he was about on the same day when 
he quietly moved over behind a boulder below 
De Laney’s Pool, and, just as the leader chafed 
the rock close to the surface, easily, without 
any appreciable tug, bade the Jock Scott good¬ 
bye. 
The next day we overlooked Red Bank from 
the high slope. There they were, eight in the 
channel, and full twenty-five black backs fan¬ 
ning the sandbar above the elbow. Never had 
we raised one above those sands. Could it not 
be done? We would go above the elbow, cross 
the river and wade down a hundred feet out on 
the bar ahead of their noses and try them. Nil 
desperandum! They were still there despite our 
nearness. A few gentle casts and the line was 
out sixty feet. I could see them plainly and 
they must have seen me. There was one fresh, 
bright fellow stirring, and, before we could say 
“Jack Robinson,” he made his dash, the fly was 
fast to his jaw and he had run to the deeper 
water near the bank. What if he should go 
below the elbow? He could run out a hundred 
yards of line, and I could not cross the channel 
to reach the sand spit to follow him, so I deter¬ 
mined to present him with the whole tackle or 
get back to the elbow. Conclusions must be 
quick, for he was not going to keep quiet long. 
Back I waded to the crossing, letting out line, 
and he was undisturbed. Across the stream I 
made my way and reeled in line until I stood 
on the spit at the elbow. “Now, sir, come on; I 
I am ready for you.” He was on to the game, 
and down the channel past the bend he went, a 
hundred feet and more. He felt heavy and 
secure, and Joe called, “You’re going to nail 
him, sure.” 
It did not take such a long time to make the 
gaffer shout again. Thirty minutes of rough 
and tumble, in and out and across, and he was 
showing his side out of the water. I slowly 
reeled him toward the sand spit and he was 
shown the gaff. He did not fancy it and was 
off again for deep water. One more turn to¬ 
ward the spit and he grew weaker. Joe stood 
ahead of him, poking the water with his gaff to 
see how the salmon liked it. He was too tired 
to rush again, and in a moment he was being 
dragged to a secure landing. Joe broke loose 
then, nearly stood upon his head and shouted 
for joy. I am glad that no one but the guide 
can prove that my conduct was other than ex¬ 
emplary and dignified. Such situations are dan¬ 
gerous to all past reputations, and many a tee¬ 
totaler has broken his pledge over a bottle of j 
Izaak Walton’s brew under the temporary 
aberration of such a result. This was my 
twenty-pounder and his skin ought to be full 
of pleasant memories in the cabin at home. 
Now, here we are at the end of our home 
tether. We have stretched it to the last knot, 
framing various ingenious excuses. Forty days 
in the open air, with the bright sun marking you 
like a son of Italy. Forty restful nights, dream¬ 
ing of the ripples and silvery flashes. Forty 
mornings crossing the intervales, picking the 
white and purple orchids, sitting on the banks 
by the pools, waiting for the up-coming sea 
breezes. Forty noon lunches, scenting the broil¬ 
ing grilse, the curling brook trout, the breakfast 
bacon and fried eggs. Forty days watching the 
eager gillie as he scanned all the swirling curves 
in the stream and quickened my courage by his 
never-flagging hopefulness. Forty days with 
good sportsmen, jollying you and swapping 
stories of other fishing and hunting. Forty days 
by the mountains whose enduring banks of snow 
ward off the summer’s heat and the humid dog 
days. 
What more could one want, with such re¬ 
freshing life to make him forget the leeks and 
onions, than twenty-six salmon, large and small, 
coming to the gaff just often enough to revive 
his hopes for the morrow? Not many stocks 
and bonds would they buy, but stocks and bonds 
cannot purchase the joys of the trail by the 
waters and the care-free life of the wooly wild¬ 
erness. 
Will you go to some great port to see the 
admirals bring their battleships to anchor? Here 
in the channel of this swift stream are twenty 
admirals, and you may make fast a hundred 
