The Tusket River. 
From Yarmouth, N. S., the Dominion Atlantic 
Railroad took me through pleasant country fifty 
miles to Weymouth, and there Charles Sullivan 
awaited me. A drive of fourteen miles to a saw 
mill at the end of the road, and a mile tramp 
over a trail, chiefly bumps and roots, took us to 
Cedar Lake, f and a short paddle landed us at 
Cedar Lodge, which a generous friend had 
placed at my disposal. Great was the temptation 
to stay there and make side excursions into the 
labyrinth of lake, river and wilderness sur¬ 
roundings, but tales of the beauties of the Tusket 
River had reached me, and surcharged with the 
restlessness of New York, I must needs explore, 
promising myself to come back and enjoy the 
lodge in detail some longer and lazier time. So 
Cedar Lodge with all its allurements of con¬ 
venience and comfort, but without the stupid 
luxury which is incongruous in the woods, de¬ 
tained us but a night, and starting early, we next 
day traversed Cedar and Mud lakes, and leav¬ 
ing the canoe in concealment, made a heavy 
portage of some two miles or more chiefly over 
burnt lands to Silver River, where Charley had 
a new canoe, fifty-five pounds only for her fifteen 
feet. Some folks called her small, but she was 
ample for ourselves and our duffle, and carried 
us safely through many a rapid and over lakes 
made boisterous by high winds. 
Across the river we found an excellent camp 
owned by town people and built for them by the 
Sullivans, who are privileged folk hereabout, hav¬ 
ing the respect of the community and the run of 
the camps. Charles knew where to find the key 
and we took possession, disturbing the chipmunks 
and swifts which had got in by broken pane or 
wide chimney. 
After luncheon, Charley took me two miles or 
more up the quiet river, and here the fun began. 
On the way I cast in a likely spot and the tail 
fly was taken by a moderate-sized trout. The 
guide slipped the net under him, and raised it 
with two fish. Now I will swear that only one 
trout was hooked; the other fly hung high in air 
and was innocent of scales, or anything belonging 
to a fish. Whether Charles is a conjure man, 
the kind which produce live rabbits from empty 
hats, I do not know; he says “no,” but he cer¬ 
tainly produced two trout where but one was 
hooked. If he who makes two blades of grass 
grow where but one grew before be a benefactor 
of mankind, much more a benefactor must be 
the guide who can scoop up two trout where you 
hooked but one. Whatever the explanation, we 
gave thanks, accepted the incident as a happy 
omen and passed on to the rapid water, where 
the surroundings were delightful and the river 
and trout matched and justified each other. This 
was in early June—late spring here—and leaf 
and blossom about matched those which T had 
seen on Hudson banks about a month earlier. 
Paddling back to camp in the quiet evening, 
taking a fish here and there, we beheld marvels of 
beauty. Silver River is silver in name only. 
Like all those waters, it has a decided brown cast 
from the moss and weeds, it is said, and the 
rocks of the bottom are generally a very dark 
brown, hence the surface of the water is almost 
black, not repellent, but making a splendid mir¬ 
ror, in which tree, bank, reeds and rocks are 
strongly reflected—so strongly on that quiet eve¬ 
ning that the presentment in the water was 
clearer than the actual object abov$ water; 
sharper in detail and clearer in color, marvelous 
and fascinating beyond the telling. 
Now, this is not a fairy tale, for I am not in 
the same class with the author of the “Tent 
Dwellers,” whose fibs never deceive any one.; he 
simply uses strong primary colors and revels in 
high lights, then, too, he plainly agrees with 
Charles Lamb, who, caught fibbing, stuttered out, 
“Yes, I know, t-t-truth is very precious, too-too- 
too precious to waste on s-s-s-some people.” On 
the way up I bought Payne’s book, and reading 
the idle chapters in the idle woods, enjoyed it 
immensely. If you cannot go to Nova Scotia 
in the flesh, go there in spirit by imbibing “The 
Tent Dwellers.” I doff my hat to author, artist, 
Eddie and all; they gave me keen pleasure, and 
having found a good thing, I want to pass it on. 
Is not that one fair version of the Golden Rule? 
At eight o'clock the blood-red sun set behind 
the trees and then— 
One by one. in the infinite meadows of heaven. 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the 
angels. 
Thanks be for the poets, with their priceless gift 
of expressing the best thoughts in the best lan¬ 
guage. Longfellow tells more in those two lines 
than I can tell in a page. At nine o'clock it was 
still light in the Northern twilight, but drowsi¬ 
ness of such air was upon us, induced by the 
divine quiet of solitude and the deep breathing, 
so abed betimes for an early start next day, which 
we made not, forgetting Mark Twain’s advice, 
“If you have something to do before breakfast, 
have your breakfast first.” Two miles down 
Silver River brought us to Barrio Lake and fifty 
yards beyond the same river, now called the 
Tusket, turns out of the lake, for in truth Barrio 
Lake, a beautiful sheet of water with its islands, 
bays, capes and sharp banks, is not on the river 
but to one side. Here, where the good name of 
the Sullivans helped me as elsewhere, the Boston 
woman who presides over the camp gave us a 
warm welcome, insisted that we break bread with 
them and finally sent us on our way rejoicing in 
the kindliness of human nature. Some loggers, 
having much work on. the lake and river, built 
their cook house on a raft. 
It is told that Mr. P„ the owner of the camp 
at Barrio Lake, went out with his brother for 
partridges one promising fall day. Luck was 
ag’in ’em, and returning late, tired, hungry and 
thirsty, they were met by the sympathizing wife 
and quietly conducted to camp, where eight par¬ 
tridges strung in a row met their astonished gaze. 
While the lords of creation were ranging the 
world over miles away, the hired man reported a 
covey close to camp, the guns of Mrs. P. and 
the cook accounted for most of them, and even 
the cat stalked and brought one in. 
Not far from Barrio Lake we struck Barrio 
Dam on the Tusket. A portage of three-quarters 
of a mile through what some folks call wilder¬ 
ness, and others call paradise, took us to the foot 
of the rapids, and then we started back again to 
fish these rapids. Oh, what water! It came 
down its rocky channel in every conceivable way, 
with now and then a wide and generous trout 
pool. From one I took eight, seven of which 
went back to grow bigger. They were not quite 
as large as the Tent Dwellers’ lot, which aver¬ 
aged a pound apiece. In that pool an accident 
befell. I was about two-fifths under water when, 
trying to go a little deeper, I slipped and fell. 
My waders filled, my one suit was wet to the 
armpits and for the rest of that day my costume 
was exceedingly abbreviated while my clothes 
dried. We pushed about three miles to Barn 
River through several rapids to Kemptville, just 
above which Moose River joins the Tusket and 
adds perceptibly to its flood. It was late, but 
Mrs. Walton, of the Imperial Hotel, cooked sup¬ 
per for us, and kept the stove going to dry out 
our wet clothes; and in fact the fire was welcome, 
for the nights there are chilly. 
For two days we had traversed wilderness, 
marked by an occasional trail only and few 
people were seen. Of course, the fishing was 
good in proportion; the fewer people the more 
trout, is a safe rule. 
After early breakfast, we started again down 
a spacious lake to a swift stream and stiff falls 
called the Branches. Here the canoe was let 
down the lesser rapid by easy stages, and waders 
proved useful. At the foot was a fine bay; rock 
riven and water rushed. “Try that spot,” said 
Charley, and two good trout responded. They 
were dark skinned fellows, in keeping with the 
water and bottom, with beauty spots outside and 
native spunk inside and of course averaging- 
much larger than the trout near New York. 
One hated to leave such places, but we had far 
to go and the trip was more for exploration than 
for fishing. Another run of smooth river through 
the wilderness with here a brood of wood duck 
scurrying away like mad, or overhead a large 
hawk sailing. Soon we reached Bad Falls, right¬ 
ly named. They are a quarter of a mile long, 
with an eight-foot drop in one place. The total 
fall is probably forty feet or more. We carried 
around and cooked dinner at the foot; a spot 
which, though beautiful, did not turn out good 
for fishing. Then came Crooke'd Falls. Flat Fglls 
and Long Lake, ending in Indian Falls, which we 
shot and camped below, on relatively quiet water 
at head of Forks Falls. A good supper, the set¬ 
ting sun, a rising moon, a lean-to for our heads 
and a rousing fire for our feet, made our camp. 
Where in Gotham I can sleep but five or six 
hours, here slumber claimed me for eight or nine 
and could have slept more but that the scenery 
and the daylight were too good to waste. 
We had been told there might be a chance for 
a salmon from Indian Falls down, but the 
natives shook their heads and offered instead 
the usual explanations and apologies which so 
delight a keen fisherman. After breakfast then 
