610 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[April 22, 1911. 
silent speed 011 the trail and watched her gray 
gown melt in the blue-greens of the forest. 
Then, too, there was Leopold, the French-Cana- 
dian guide, a sturdy man with all the picturesque 
garrulity of the Frenchman toned down with 
the silence of the trail. Last of all was Indian 
Albert, big, silent, expert with the rod and pad¬ 
dle as both were with the gun; good guides both 
as we had often reason to say. It was late that 
night when we lay down with the rustle of the 
forest for lullaby, and the moaning of the wind 
through the spruce forest came to us of the 
city like the deep diapason of a distant organ. 
A fine day and nine miles of lovely trail in 
to our first fishing stage! Not soon shall I for¬ 
get that trail—through high, solemn forests, 
across lonely mountains where mile-long gashes 
marked the path of forest fires; the cry of the 
loon lying on the waters with his mate; the deer 
leaping in the thicket, and at last, just as the 
sun reached its highest, the glimmer of blue 
waters through the trees. It was Arnold Pond, 
made famous by the journey of Arnold to Quebec 
in the dead of winter. 
Indian Albert soon had the canoe ready and 
the Deacon and Doctor afloat. “What bait shall 
I use?” asked the Deacon, and Indian Albert 
looped on one of those spinners with a six-inch 
sucker. 1 chose a silver doctor fly. Quietly we 
glided around the lake some fifty yards from 
shore, but never a strike did we get. We were 
beginning to wonder what had become of the 
fish when I got a strike which bent the rod 
double in one quick stroke, and seventy-five feet 
astern the surface was broken by a silvery gleam 
that leaped up, curled over like a porpoise and 
disappeared. The dignified Deacon howled, In¬ 
dian Albert grunted, and I worked the reel. 
Whatever I had, felt well hooked. He was work¬ 
ing away like a puppy at a root. The rod was 
bent till it dipped in the water and still the In¬ 
dian kept on paddling till I said: “Albert, stop 
paddling so I can reel him in.” For the first 
time that day Albert spoke: “Hu, you got sal¬ 
mon; he come slow; don’ pull too hard! I row 
so he don’ get slack.” 
A landlocked salmon! This was the first one 
I had ever hooked, and the very sound of the 
word made me thrill with eager desire to land 
him. Again and again he rose a foot from the 
water, sometimes skipping along the surface. 
Again he dove deep down with jerks that threat¬ 
ened to pull the frail hook from his jaws. At 
last I had him alongside, and the Deacon dipped 
the net to hoist him aboard, but as soon as the 
net touched the water, the fish was off again 
like a shot. But how can a man tell the story 
of such a fight? The telling seems stale. To 
the very last he leaped and dove, till tired out 
he paused a moment and the net drew him 
home. 
There he lay in the canoe, his silvery sides and 
black spots making a fair picture, indeed. 
Hitherto I had felt that all this talk about the 
salmon’s gaminess was a little exaggerated, and 
was prepared to back the black bass, weight for 
weight, against any fish that swims; certainly 
against any trout. But I take off my hat to the 
landlocked salmon; he is a warrior born, and 
no man may take him without a hard fight. 
“Albert,” said the Deacon, “is my bait on 
right? I’m a novice at all this; hadn’t we better 
put a fly on? This thing is enough to scare any 
.sensible fish.” To which the Indian answered: 
“You're all right; wait, we get ’em.” And we 
moved on. 
Scarcely forty rods had we gone when the 
Deacon had a strike. His rod bent like a bow 
and he began to labor at the reel. Another sal¬ 
mon? Well, if so, he was acting differently. 
No fin broke the surface, though the Deacon 
had at least a hundred feet of line out. Rather 
this fish sought the depths in a dogged, jerking 
way which brought grunts from Albert and 
chuckles of joy from the Deacon. “He’s a big 
one; he’s a heavy fish; am I handling him right? 
I’m a novice at this.” 
“Maybe it’s a trout hooked foul,” I suggested, 
but repented the moment I saw the shadow pass 
THE NOVICE. 
over his happy face. “What do you think it 
is, Albert?” “Togue,” he grunted laconically, 
and togue it was. Only when pulled by the 
spring of the rod did he rise to the surface and 
there threshed about, covering himself and us 
with foam. 
Meanwhile the sky had become overcast and 
a cold wind sprang up. The rain came down 
in a steady drizzle, but snugly clad in water¬ 
proofs we patrolled the bar where we had caught 
these two fine fish. Not once that day did we 
go the full length of that bar without at least a 
strike. But all the rest were brook trout, caught 
for the most part on the spinner. 
The wind moaned through the big pines and 
the rain drove hissing in the waters, but only 
as the faint note of a horn announced supper 
in camp did we pause for a hasty bite, then back 
again we went to that fascinating scene. Shelt¬ 
ered now from the wind, we pulled along a thick 
grove of poplars, and while floating in the gath¬ 
ering twilight, I saw a trail in the water as of 
some animal making for the other shore. “Musk¬ 
rat?” I said to the Indian, but he shook his head 
and replied: “Otter.” We pulled quietly to¬ 
ward him until we could distinctly see his head 
and back. But he saw us, turned, and with a 
splash that sounded like a brick thrown into a 
well, down he went, while Albert grunted, 
“Beaver.” There was no mistaking the splash 
of that tail, and so we waited for others of his 
kind. Along the shore were abundant cuttings, 
young poplars and birch cut and grooved as by 
a stone hatchet or chisel. Five of these bank 
beavers we saw along this shore alone, and a 
pair of wild ducks were quietly quacking their 
good-night song beneath a tangle of fallen trees 
as we came out in the open lake and pulled back 
in the gale of wind and rain. But piling logs on 
the fire, we stretched ourselves comfortably to 
watch the smoke curl up the chimney and listen to 
the patter of rain on the roof. In the silence we 
could hear the sound of the borers in the logs 
of the cabin, and outside in the darkness some¬ 
where the grunt, grunt and scratching of a por¬ 
cupine. 
It was still raining when we awoke, but the 
wind had fallen, so out to the lake the Deacon 
and Doctor went, bundled in waterproofs. There 
was the minnow trap to be set and perhaps a 
trout could be taken for breakfast. Hooking a 
minnow, I cast a few feet out, and at once had 
a strike vigorous enough to warrant expecta¬ 
tions. So, after letting him have it till about 
fifty feet had run out, I struck, and after a 
struggle hauled in a water-logged spruce top. 
Repeated casts brought nothing, so I devoted 
myself to the minnow trap. A fair amount of 
suckers ranging from three to twelve inches were 
caught. Some of the minnows had the black 
dots of a salmon; several of the suckers were 
almost as red as a goldfish, and these made ,an 
interesting study. 
Still the rain fell in torrents, and making for 
the cabin, we set targets out for a pistol match 
to be shot from the overhanging eaves of the 
camp. Leopold made head score and Albert, 
Cave Man, Gray Rabbit and the Doctor were 
pretty evenly matched. It was the Deacon who 
turned the score. “I'm a novice,” he said, “and 
you must show me how this ought to sight, ’ as 
he held the pistol in hand. A diagram was made. 
The Deacon polished his glasses, carefully sighted 
and put a bullet exactly through the center. 
“That’s the way to shoot,” he remarked, as he 
laid the pistol down. Nor could we prevail on 
him to try another shot. “Why should I,” said 
he, “till someone beats that?” And we won¬ 
dered whether this w r as accident or consummate 
skill. 
Meanwhile, Cave Man and Gray Rabbit were 
out on the lake. We sat before the fire and 
watched. Suddenly we saw Leopold stop pad¬ 
dling, and the Cave Man’s rod go down with a 
rush. He was fast to a heavy fish. We cheered 
the struggle from where we sat. Minutes passed 
but the fish seemed unconquered, though every 
once in a while a rag of foam floated some 
twenty feet from the boat. Nearer and nearer 
the foam came till we could see the spray splat¬ 
ter over into the skiff. Leopold dipped the net 
and a huge fish flopped from it, while over the 
water boomed Cave Man’s voice, “Togue.” It 
was a large lake trout. 
[to be concluded.] 
