February, 1918 FOREST AND S T R E A M 89 
Memories of a well-filled creel 
Moreover the little pool swarmed with 
trout and they would rise right eagerly to 
the tiny midge or the small brown hackle. 
Wondrous strings of speckled beauties 
we would bring back from this favoured 
spot to the envy of less fortunate anglers. 
But again the scene changes. 
A N old Silver Doctor, much disar¬ 
ranged and frayed, lies on the flannel 
before me and I see again in mem¬ 
ory’s eye a glorious salmon stream far 
away in the wilds of Newfoundland. I see 
the river rushing onward to the sea, with 
high wooded hills towering in the back¬ 
ground, scarred in many places by deep 
trails, which the Caribou have made in 
their migrations across the island. In the 
foreground are the guides pushing the ca¬ 
noes up stream with long steel shod poles. 
Well do I remember the rush of that 
noble salmon as he dashes after the fly, 
and, as he feels the prick of the hook 
hurls himself again and again into the air 
and around and around the pool, while the 
rod bends like a thing of life and the reel 
shrieks as the pressure comes and the line 
goes hissing out. Salmon against green- 
heart—so the struggle goes on with not 
much to choose between the two. Then 
the final flurry—the last wild dash—he is 
safely landed upon the gaff, while the In¬ 
dian grins approval and all nature seems 
to smile,—my first salmon! 
This but the forerunner of many others 
as we pursue our way up stream. The 
■canoe forging ahead against the swift cur¬ 
rent at every stroke of the paddle as we 
penetrate the net-work of waters that in¬ 
terlace this winderness, into far away 
parts where few travellers have been, but 
abruptly the picture is blotted out and I 
turn to the old book for the last time. 
Here on the last page among a con¬ 
fusion of flies of many colors I see 
an old familiar one—a red Ibis—its 
| bright colors gone, its gorgeous crimson 
wings and hackles faded and withered, and 
once more the scene changes and I am back 
again in the land of Evangeline. 
Once more I see the beautiful Ocean 
Runns, an ever changing panorama of 
scenic beauty from its source until it 
rushes into the sea and the fresh wave 
mingles with the briny. 
Here in the upper reaches of the river 
have we spent many a never-to-be-forgot¬ 
ten day in pursuit of the speckled trout, 
exploring, watching its ever changing 
moods, glad to be alive. Now we see the 
river in one place rushing like a brown 
torrent through the thick spruce woods, 
silently and swiftly as if anxious to meet 
its destiny. 
In other places calm and still, where the 
placid waters seem to rest for a while in 
quiet content before entering on their dash 
to the ocean. 
One place in particular will always linger 
in my memory as a beauty spot indeed. 
Here with alders and dark spruces mir¬ 
rored on its quiet surface, its waters sel¬ 
dom disturbed save by the lazy dash of a 
trout, the limpid waters glide slowly on¬ 
ward ocean bound. 
All nature seems at peace. The chatter 
of the kingfisher alone breaks the silence 
and a magic spell seems to linger over the 
spot—the spell of the beauty of Nature 
and of the fitness of everything. 
Farther down, the stream flows for a 
spell through barren land where rocky 
hills rear themselves above the surround¬ 
ing country and huge rocks lie scattered 
around in strange positions as though 
giants had been at play. Onward still it 
hurries through meadows of laurel, sweet 
fern, pink “lamb poison” and thickets of 
white Labrador tea. Then through impen¬ 
etrable alder thickets, where the star flow- 
The pool swarmed with trout 
Under the pines and hemlocks 
ers are seen. Tall green ferns wave in the 
summer breeze. Here and there on drier 
ground a delicate perfume fills the air and 
on looking for the cause we see the dainty 
twin-flowers, tiny pink bells glowing a 
deeper hue of pink inside, creations of the 
wilderness moulded with exquisite taste. 
There may be some quaint legend con¬ 
nected with the twin-flowers; its name of 
“twin-sisters” still obtains among the chil¬ 
dren in the woodland districts where it 
grows and sheds its sweetness. Surely 
few odors of the tropics are more seduc¬ 
tive than that which emanates from these 
modest pink bells. The fragrance hangs 
like a blanket of scent over the course of 
the stream for several yards. 
Yet farther the stream broadens to a lake 
and rests awhile, but soon it is hurrying on 
again. Swift and swifter it glides thru’ 
the thick spruce and the “dark’ning pines” 
until at length, like a hound unleashed, its 
journey done—• 
“Foam flakes toss’t on-a torrent brown 
It meets old Ocean’s shore.” 
And here the scene changes—the vision 
dies away; I close up the old book and with 
a sigh of regret take up the thread of life. 
The winter snow lies over three feet 
deep among the spruces and the alder 
swamp is now a glittering expanse, its 
white smoothness broken only here and 
there by protruding tops which brushed my 
shoulders as .1 forced my way through 
them last summer; the rivers are silent 
threads of crystal, save where a fringe of 
ice at the banks gives way beneath the 
strain of rising or falling waters; the lake, 
a soundless floor except for the deep 
boom of an opening .“wrinkle” as the ice 
expands, invites my feet to wander over 
the surface where I floated in my tiny 
boat. But winter fishing holds little charm 
for me, and with restrained impatience I 
await the coming of spring when my old 
fly-book and I will again take to the open 
road with memory for a guide. 
