Miss Bly and the Salmon. 
One gray Sunday last September I was walk¬ 
ing along ‘the eastern coast of Thetis Island, 
which lies some six miles northeast of the Port 
of Chemainus, Vancouver Island. The sea was 
like glass, and its ' surface dotted over with 
grebes, mergansers, and many kinds of ducks. 
Some distance above the water, and concealing 
only the tops of the numerous surrounding 
islets, hung the thick, white, wooly fog. At 
this time of year, and also in the spring, a regu¬ 
lar bank of fog rolls in from the Gulf of Georgia 
and hangs heavily along the eastern sides of 
the islands that fringe the west side of the gulf. 
It was quite a typical Sunday morning, and 
but for the ducks and grebes, might have been 
spring.' A silence almost oppressive in its 
density hung over everything, broken only by 
the occasional splash of some bird or fish, or 
the melancholy long-drawn wail of some dis¬ 
tant Siwash as he trolled for salmon in his 
dugout. There was not a murmur amid the 
giant pines which grew to the very water’s edge. 
I generally spent Sundays in a ramble with 
gun, rod and note-book, either through the bush 
or along the coast. As usual, Miss Bly—her 
intimates called her Nellie-—was my companion. 
She was not much to look at, but had a good 
nose and was desperately fond of all kinds of 
sport. Her one failing—and it was a bad one— 
was that if, after a successful shot, she ever 
got to the bird before her master, it was a case 
of “halves”; her master’s share being frequently 
less, and in the case of a snipe, mostly feathers! 
As I strolled along the cliff, here some forty 
feet above the deep, still water, I could some¬ 
times see rock cod and perch swimming in the 
depths below. As a rule, however, it was im¬ 
possible to cast, owing to the enormous 
branches of the trees. On that day, however, 
on rounding a point, 'I saw something below 
that made me quietly draw back into the cover 
of the pines and put my fourteen-foot rod to¬ 
gether with anxious fingers. I carried in my 
pocket a flat tin tobacco box with two or three 
casts, spoons, swivels, etc., in it and a lead or 
two; the reel was on the rod. It was the work 
of a few moments only to mount a ijZ-inch 
spoon, and leaving all else behind in the bush, 
including Miss Bly, I peered carefully forth 
‘ from the cover. Was he still there, that 
splendid salmon? 
He was, apparently lying near the surface 
of the water. Better still, there was a rock 
from behind which a good cast might be made 
over him from cover. I had to make a detour 
of some fifty yards to get down, and then stole 
quietly along the base of the cliffs to the rock 
I had marked. Here I pulled several yards of 
line from the reel, and, keeping under cover, 
started the spoon swinging round my head in a 
figure of eight, paying out line till I had abour 
three yards more than I thought would reach 
him. Then, drawing back the rod, and letting 
the line travel out to its full extent behind me, 
I cast, as near as I could judge, over and ahead 
of where I had last seen the fish. The spoon 
fell beautifully, and I could feel, as the line drew 
straight, that it was spinning finely. Then came 
that second we all know so well. The psycho¬ 
logical moment—when if the fish saw the spoon 
and wanted it, he must rise—and he did! I 
had him. 
How the reel shrieked, and how the old rod 
bent to the game! The fish went off like a 
torpedo, the line cutting the water like a bullet. 
Full fifty yards, and then high in the air leaped 
the fish. He looked a yard and a half long. I 
lowered the rod slightly to let the top keep 
touch with the hook-hold, and then he was off 
again. Then I got a slight pull on him, and he 
came in a bit. 
So we went at it, first he having a rush, some¬ 
times with a leap at the end of it, then I, reel¬ 
ing him in before he could recover. It was 
vastly exciting, and through it all I was con¬ 
scious of Miss Bly yelling frantic directions 
from the cliff-top. Unfortunately, as it proved, 
I had not tied her up. After about a quarter oi 
an hour’s give and take, I keeping all the strain 
on that I dared, the fish began to show signs 
of weakening. He jumped less frequently, and 
at times I got his head well up. I was reeling 
him in carefully at last, and wondering how to 
land him on the rocks, when suddenly Miss 
Bly appeared beside me, and without a second’s 
hesitation sprang straight into the water, and 
made for the fish. In vain I roared at her. 
“Leave it to me,” she seemed to say; “I’ll show 
you how to land this fish, instead of fiddling 
about with him the way you are doing!” 
She swam to the salmon, but by the mercy of 
Providence he dived just as she made a snap at 
him. She trod water to see where he would 
re-appear, taking no notice of my pretense that 
he was on the rocks beside me, and I was mak¬ 
ing much of him. 
It takes a long time in the telling, but the 
incidents succeeded each other with an all-too- 
dramatic rapidity. Several times she was right 
Over him, and they were mixed up together in 
chaos in the water. Once she actually dived 
after him. 
However, at last I got an opportunity and 
ran him in alongside me to the rocks. He was 
beat, or I should never have got him even then. 
I carry on my belt a knife, which has a lock-back 
marlinspike on it. I undid it and opened this. 
Then changing the rod to my left hand, and 
taking the knife in the other, I passed my right 
hand under the fish and drove the spike straight 
up into him and scraped him up onto the rocks. 
The dog dare not come within reach, fearing, 
with some reason, a like fate. At the moment I 
felt quite capable of justifying her fears! 
However, gazing at the fish soon restored 
my temper. He was a beauty, a tyee, and 
scaled 15 pounds on our arrival home. I did 
not beat Miss Bly after all, and since then I 
have allowed her to land rock cod for me. But 
I shall never attempt the capture of another 
salmon when she is present, without first tying 
her firmly to a large tree. Starlight. 
An Outing on the Sur. 
When and where to go for this year’s vaca¬ 
tion was for several days a perplexing question. 
Zerah, my companion of many former trips, 
was still suffering from a severe attack of the 
grippe, the Judge was chained to business, and 
our Visalia friends had made other arrange¬ 
ments for the summer. To affiliate with new 
combinations did not seem attractive, but it was 
either that or play a lone hand, and with some 
reluctance I chose the latter. 
This point settled, £he next thing was where 
to go. The lure of the high sierras was as 
strong as ever, but must I confess it, the peaks 
seemed more distant and the canons more 
rugged than when I scaled the cloud-capped 
walls of Yosemite more than forty years ago. 
Some of us remember how, long ago, Ness- 
muk, of revered memory, when his sun was get¬ 
ting low, turned his back upon the timbered 
hills and brawling streams of the Adirondacks 
where he had spent so many summers, and hied 
him to the placid bayous of lotos-eating Florida. 
So Forked Deer packed his bag, bought a 
ticket for the South, and six hours later rolled 
into the quaint little town of Monterey, made 
famous in the early annals of the State by Sloat, 
Stockton and Fremont. 
Salmon were biting freely in the beautiful 
bay, and the temptation to cast a line there 
was strong, but idle boatmen were scarce, and 
as every one wanted to catch salmon, none was 
left to catch sardines, making it difficult to get 
bait. I contented myself by visiting the old 
custom house, theatre and a few other ancient 
buildings, whose association with the early 
traditions of the place made them exceedingly 
interesting. 
Early the next morning the stage for the Big 
Sur River, forty miles away, drew .up to the 
verandah of the hotel, mail and passengers 
taken on and we were off for the trout streams 
that mark the extreme southern limit of Cali¬ 
fornia’s great red wood belt. • For the first 
twenty-five miles the route lay along the coast. 
The shore was bold, with many little rocky 
islets—detached fragments of the mainland—on 
which scores of sealions were basking, bellow¬ 
ing and fighting for coveted positions. Here 
and there could be seen the boats of the 
abalone fishermen, the men laboring at the air 
pumps to supply the diver who was gathering 
the great mollusks from the rocks several 
fathoms below the surface. Beyond were the 
coasters, lending their way north or south 
under steam or sail, while occasionally the huge 
bulk of a whale, appearing above the surface as 
he arose to blow, drew screams of delight from 
the feminine contingent. 
To our left lay the coast range clad in a 
vesture as gorgeous as the hues of a rainbow. 
Here was a peak two or three thousand feet 
high whose entire side appeared a solid carpet 
of bright blue lupines, and there one a brilliant 
yellow. These colors predominated although 
red, pink, purple and white were also seen. 
