88 
FOREST AND STREAM 
February, 1918 
BETWEEN THE COVERS OF A FLY BOOK 
AMONG THE FLANNEL PAGES, STUDDED WITH FLIES OF ALL DESCRIPTIONS, 
LIE HAPPY MEMORIES OF BY-GONE DAYS ON TROUT AND SALMON WATERS 
By L. R. LORDLY 
( 6 Q UBBLE, bubble flows the stream 
|) Here a glint and there a gleam 
Like an old song thru’ a dream.” 
An old book it was, tattered and faded 
and withal showing plain upon its shabby 
surface the ravages of time and the evi¬ 
dences of wear and tear, byt its pages are 
full of happy memories of by-gone days, 
and recollection stirs as I open the old 
book and turn over the flannel pages, cov¬ 
ered and studded with flies of all descrip¬ 
tions, from the tiny midge to the big Red 
Ibis and the great Silver Doctors. 
And as I gaze upon them I noticed one 
in particular-—a faded Jenny Lind—its 
bright blue and red colors now but the 
shadow of its former brightness; and as 
I look, the dreary little Western town with 
its wide expanse of unending monotonous 
prairie vanishes from sight and in its stead 
comes a brighter vision of a charming trout 
stream in far away Acadie—a moorland 
strfeam winding its peaceful way through 
the tall meadow grass bordering its edges, 
-—at other times running through park-like 
groves of birches and poplars, where the 
thrush twitters to its mate and the ruffed 
grouse sends forth his muffled roll call like 
the beat of a 
distant drum. 
Here the 
lovely trailing 
Arbutus with 
its pink and 
white blossoms 
peeps out from 
among the 
greenery, the 
delicate pink of 
some clusters 
contrasting viv¬ 
idly with the 
waxy white¬ 
ness of others. 
Here and there 
trailing vines 
with curious 
little red ber¬ 
ries are seen, 
while checker- 
berries glow 
a m o n g the 
shadows, and 
the graceful green tassels of the lion’s-paw 
trail around over the soft carpet. 
Amid these surroundings, over mossy 
stones the brook murmurs, sometimes al¬ 
most losing itself and its music among 
the stones and then again gurgling forth 
with renewed energy and ambition. 
Again the stream widens to a little pool, 
alderhedged, where often a trout jumps or 
Veterans that have “done their bit 
merely ripples the silver surface for an 
instant. Farther up, the stream broadens 
to a larger still-water fringed with wild 
grasses, wherein the little wild ducks play 
and the blue heron pursues the shiners. 
Here in the deeper places the large trout 
abound and as twilight shadows fall, the 
ripples that tell of their presence can be 
seen everywhere. They favoured the 
Jenny Lind here above all other flies and 
many a gleaming brook trout came to net 
V, 
r 
il 
■g; 
the little lake around like the setting of 
some rare jewel in dark, rich enamel. 
Lily pads cover the greater part of it, 
and as the wayward wind playfully ripples 
over, they rise up in grotesque shapes and 
figures rising and falling as the wind lists. 
Then all is calm and tranquil again. The 
white water lily raises its head with its 
encircling crown of golden stamens above 
the water and here and there its yellow 
counterpart is seen. Silence reigns su¬ 
preme except for the splashing of an occa¬ 
sional muskrat or the quacking of the wild 
ducks, the deep bass of the older birds 
answered by the shrill treble of the young. 
Out in the middle, where the lily pads 
no longer hold sway, lie the big trout and 
as the calm of evening descends ripple after 
ripple appears varied ever and anon by the 
splashing of a large one. Here we found 
right royal sport, and fishing from the 
tiny boat we took many a splendid trout, 
and always the Montreal was the fly most 
favored by these princes of the water. 
As I picture this little lake at twilight it 
stands out in memory as one of the most 
beautiful I have ever seen in a country 
abounding in lakes—a lake where the sur¬ 
roundings have 
never been 
marred by man 
—given over 
to the wild 
things that 
love the silent 
places. But 
here the vision 
vanishes again. 
T 
The flannel pages of the old fly book are equal to any emergency 
on the old fly, now moth eaten and long 
ago relegated to the past. But the vision 
fades away and I am at my desk again. 
A Montreal lies before me, its purple 
wings sadly awry and twisted, and the 
scene changes to a wilderness lake far re¬ 
moved from civilization, with marshy bor¬ 
ders and wild meadows extending back a 
little, until the big woods come and edge 
1 H E sight 
of a wee 
midge 
brings back 
vividly another 
picture to me— 
that of a tiny 
pool hidden 
away in the 
deep spruce 
woods as if 
Nature was 
loath to reveal 
i t s presence, 
alder fringed on one side and bounded by 
a meadow on the other. 
Here the birds were always singing. The 
sweet call of the white-throated thrush 
calling to “Sweet Canada—Canada—Cana¬ 
da” but voiced the sentiments of his list¬ 
eners. Little yellow bird^ flitted about the 
alders and the chatter of red squirrels 
came clearly to us from near by trees. 
