994 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June 24, 1911. 
Y OU know mallards—wisest and wariest of all 
ducks- Solomons of the air. You can’t knock 
down mallards with a paddle nor can you get them 
with a gun that plasters its shots all over the face 
of creation. 
A mallard shot is generally a long shot, and long 
shots require a hard-shooting, close-shooting gun. 
That’s why the long-headed man who goes to a 
mallard country takes a Lefe/er. When he swings 
it on a towering pair of mallards he does not ques¬ 
tion the result. He know it— 
TWO CLEAN KILLS 
The reason a Lefever kills clean and sure and 
far is Lefever Taper Boring. 
But if you buy a Lefever for the taper boring 
alone, you will get more than your money’s worth. 
For instance, you will never be handicapped with 
looseness at the hinge joint. The exclusive Lefever 
screw compensates for a year’s wear by a trifling 
turn that you make yourself with a screwdriver. 
LEFEVER 
SHOT GUNS 
Sixteen other exclusive Lefever features and Lefe¬ 
ver simplicity and strength make the $28 gun the 
peer of any S 50 gun on the market. Upwards to 
91,000. Send for free catalog and get Lefever wise. 
Lefever Arms Co., 23 Maltbie St., Syracuse,N.Y. 
What’s the use 
of shooting— 
unless you have the 
best to shoot with? 
What would be the 
use of pitting your skill 
against some one who 
is better equipped than 
you ? 
Neitherhe noryouwould 
know which was the better 
shot — which is, 
chief reason you 
sonable doubt --„ .... UHl maoe po- 
Kecorded results in every section of the country prove it 
Dead Shot is always the same unvarying quality. 4 
can always depend upon it at all times and places under 
conditions. 
Now there can be no re 
is the best made powd< 
Use Dead Shot and your powder will be sure, persistent 
and a considerable factor in your best success. 
All loading companies use it. Be sure to get it. 
AMERICAN POWDER MI LLS 
BOSTON CHICAGO ST LOUIS 
j?e<idj5hot 
Trade Murk Keg. in V. S. Tat. Off. 
When writing say you saw the advertisement 
in “Forest and Stream.” 
A BRITON ON GUIDES. 
The Gillie of America (wherein I include 
Canada), says F. G. A. in the Field, is an 
American citizen, or a Canadian (whatever his 
color), and he does not let you forget it. For 
his greater assumption of independence, he calls 
himself a “guide.” Between “guide” and 
“gillie” (the meaning of which I know not, un¬ 
less it have any connection with the gills of the 
salmon) the difference may not seem great; in 
practice it is immense; for your gillie of the 
New World is not content to be a guide. He 
regards himself as also your philosopher and 
friend, and, above all things, your equal—where 
he is not, indeed, your superior. I have known 
guides of Scotch descent in New Brunswick in¬ 
dignant if a sportsman refused to sleep under 
the same blanket with them! Now, in a Can¬ 
adian winter, there may, on freezing nights, be 
something attractive in close companionship, 
but in a New Brunswick summer I can answer 
for it, a separate blanket, if not, indeed, a sep¬ 
arate tent, is to be preferred. To add that they 
invariably address you by name, without the 
superfluous prefix, is stating what every one 
probably knows. Yet, for all their outward 
crudeness of manner, many of them are sterling 
fellows enough, and, if well paid and treated as 
equals (and, after all, out there in the back- 
woods they are less our equals than our 
superiors), they work like slaves and do their 
best to show sport with rod or gun. They are 
happiest when, round the camp-fire of an even¬ 
ing, they can tell their amazing stories of every 
beast, from moose to skunk, and the sportsman 
will do well to take it all in without a murmur, 
for his complaisance is a small reward for all 
their toil in camp or canoe. 
More interesting to me than these was a lean 
and silent Chippewa Indian, with whom I 
camped out in Ontario, a curious gloomy fel¬ 
low, who would paddle the canoe for hours to¬ 
gether and who cooked for me, and, humanized 
by a good meal and a cigar, would endeavor to 
teach me fragments of the dying Algonquin 
tongue. Madwayosh was a fine type of a van¬ 
ishing race—lithe, keen of eye, quiet as his 
native forest, and able to swing an ax and light 
a fire in less time than it takes to write of him. 
'S et lie was no Fenimore Cooper Indian of 
superhuman instincts and dramatic woodcraft. 
His qualities were negative, but endearing, and 
he served me well, this Red Man. We parted 
the best of friends. 
Another lake, lovelier far than Georgian Bay, 
whereon we fished together, comes before me 
as I recall "Jerry,” a fair-haired, blue-eyed 
exile from Bavaria, and the lake is Tahoe, way 
up in the California sierras, 
The greenest of things blue, 
The bluest of things grey. * * * 
Jerry was no unwilling truant from the Father- 
land, for exile gave him freedom from the petty 
authority of UnteroMsiere and from the iron 
routine of barracks and drill ground. The 
Kaiser might carry fire and sword over the 
length and breadth of Europe, but Jerry would 
never shoulder a rifle or serve a gun. He pre¬ 
ferred the pine-clad shores of Tahoe. The 
witchery of its waters had entered the soul of 
even this unromantic peasant. Sometimes, he 
owned, when there were no sportsmen to pay 
dollars for good trout, the silence of the sierras 
would oppress him, but —Aber sehen Sie tnal, 
Herr —could he not then take train to Truckee 
or Reno, and drink beer with Czechs, Lithuan¬ 
ians, and other Balkan and Carpathian rabble 
from the mines? 
Elsewhere in California are the gleaming 
bays of Santa Catalina, where the leaping tuna 
and great swordfish are taken on the rod, and 
there. C. F. Holder and I would drift over the 
beautiful sea gardens in the company of “Mex¬ 
ican Joe,” the half-cast doyen of the Catalina 
guides. With him was invariably a mascot in 
the shape of a hairless dog, appropriately named 
the “Tuna Hound” by Gifford Pinchot, then of 
the Forestry Department. Joe was equipped 
with an inexhaustible fund of fishing yarns, 
which he retailed as autobiography, and his 
revelations more than compensated for an oc¬ 
casional blank day. He had been the greatest 
of guides, but, knowing something of his won¬ 
derful imagination, few took serious blame as 
Jonahs when he calmly vowed that never before 
had he come back without a fish. The wages of 
all these American guides are high. A 
sovereign is not considered excessive for a half¬ 
day’s fishing at Catalina, but this, of course, in¬ 
cludes the petrol used on the launch. 
Perhaps the least satisfactory guides in that 
continent are the habitants, or French-Canad- 
ians. My experience of them is not extensive, 
but I recollect fishing with one for some days 
on a lake not far from Montreal, where the 
boatmen might have stepped right out of the 
pages of Drummond. Louis was my guide, and 
he devoted most of the time (for which I was 
paying) to long rallies of mordant repartee with 
his brother Alphonse, who sat in a neighbor¬ 
ing boat and slung it back. They quarreled in a 
curious patois, half French, half English, and 
they blasphemed with a freedom not to be 
equaled in the Paris halles. 
A thousand miles nearer the sunset there is 
yet another lake of very different aspect from 
those of Quebec, a beautiful basin of clear water, 
deep and blue, framed in the crags of the 
Rockies. “Devil’s Lake,” as they call it, is 
within easy ride of Banff, and here I was rowed 
out to the fish by an old Trinity man. Out of 
luck at home, and with just capital enough to 
start in a small way in the new country, he had 
built a little inn and assembled a modest flotilla 
of punts, and here, fishing in summer and duck 
shooting in winter, making a livelihood by shar¬ 
ing his sport with those willing to pay for the 
privilege, he led a simple life almost ideal for 
any one of unambitious temperament. 
1 he Canadian lake dissolves in the steam of a 
Florida back-water on a golden day of May, 
with grotesque pelicans wheeling heavily over 
the low shore of the Gulf of Mexico and giant 
rays leaping in the sunlight. Half a dozen of us 
are after tarpon, and my own guide is Under¬ 
hill, a lean and sallow “cracker.” When there' 
is nothing doing, Underhill will smoke my 
cigars, crossing one long leg over the other in 
an attitude of dolce far niente that would be the 
making of a poster of the “idle rich.” Yet, 
when there is work on hand, when a great tar¬ 
pon. exhausted by its leaps, has to be dragged 
by main force to the beach, then does Underhill 
row for dear life, as if he were winning the 
diamonds at Henley, and, when the moment 
arrives, he jumps out in the shallows with the 
long-handled gaff and strikes it home in the 
great herring that he may drag it high and dry. 
And so they pass across the screen of retro¬ 
spect, the comrades of my fishing days, the men 
who shared with me the happy summers, the 
days that are no more and never can be. In 
earlier holidays. Catching fish was all of fishing; 
but maturity brings wider interest, and the 
personal equation of the guide counts for more 
each year. He is the product of his climate and 
environment, and it seems inconceivable that, 
even if I outlive the ninety years of Walton, the 
future should bring a more varied fallowing 
than those who have been—the lazy Spaniard, 
the Mohammedan fatalist, the lethargic south¬ 
erner, the vivacious Basque, the volatile nigger, 
the mercurial Italian, or the morose Algonquin. 
Peace to their memory! 
HE DISTURBED THE SALMON. 
. Some queer charges are brought from time to 
time in the police courts in connection with game 
and fish preservation, but that brought against 
a collier at Cockermouth seems to be unique. 
The man was charged with disturbing salmon 
on their spawning beds by walking up and down 
the river banks. 
It was stated in evidence that the fish were 
so numerous that some of them had been driven 
right into the side to spawn, and that they 
ceased if anybody stood on the hank and looked 
at. them. This sounds rather like a scientific 
fairy tale, but the magistrates believed it and 
fined the collier 15s. for prying into the domestic 
affairs of the Salmonida. —Truth. 
