Going to the fishing grounds in tow of a motor-boat. 
Now we paddle round and round the 
weed bed where the Indian is sure the 
pious fish do congregate, but the 
preacher either is too busy with his 
oratory to be hungry, or he has dis- 
missed his hearers and sent them home 
to dinner. “Sermon no good. Fish all 
asleep now,” suggests our noble red 
man, and he lights his old black pipe, 
thinking to lure them with its smoke. 
Making medicine with his pipe is one 
of his favorite methods of catching fish, 
and this time he is not disappointed. 
A sharp tug at my line almost pulls the 
rod out of my hand. The muskie at 
last! Wilson’s face lights up like the 
sun coming out from under a cloud, and 
as suddenly is eclipsed in dismal black- 
ness. For the line has broken like a 
thread at the snap of a pair of fierce 
jaws which have gathered in not only 
the bait but a short copper leader and 
the sinker as well. “That fish he have 
big pain. Go find doctor quick,” is the 
Indian’s only comment, but I long for 
the eloquence of a lumber jack with 
which to state my feelings. Now a loud 
and gruesome bellow sounds from the 
depths of the forest, and I arouse my- 
self from my gloom to inquire if it is a 
moose calling to its mate. “No,” says 
Wilson with infinite pity for one so 
stupid, “Ole bullfrog laffin’ at us. Says 
we no good catchin’ fish.” 
E set our teeth grimly and make 
up our minds to force that old 
bullfrog to eat his words. The sun is 
slanting down behind the hills upon the 
western shore, and surely some hungry 
466 

muskie must be. astir 
hunting for his evening 
meal. A shout from hus- 
band, a sharp struggle, 
and he lands a fine big 
pike, then a few minutes 
later a four pound black 
bass. How good that 
bass will taste hot from 
the pan at supper time! 
But we remind Wilson of 
his promise to find us a 
muskie. 
E glances at the sun 
and says it is six 
o’clock, and that the fish 
will be in the canoe be- 
fore seven. He is very 
solemn about it, and In- 
dians do seem to know a 
lot about fish, so we put 
out our. lines again. 
Every nerve is tense and 
every muscle strained as 
we feel in imagination 
the sharp tug at the line 
which will surely come. 
Five minutes pass, ten 
minutes more, and we 
are growing nervous so that. we jump 
when some animal crashes through the 
underbrush on the shore. Surely the 
muskie will strike at any moment now. 
Another fifteen minutes. The sun is 
sinking fast. Perhaps he won’t come 
till tomorrow. Our hands relax a little 
as we think of the camp 
at twilight and the other 
canoes coming in, bear- ee as 
ing spoils, while we have Wee. 4 
only our bass to show. 
Suddenly, a great jerk! 
The canoe jolts to a stop 
in the midst of a paddle 
stroke. The reel sings as 
the line runs out faster 
and faster. I almost bite 
my tongue in two. “Wil- 
son, Wilson, stop! My 
hook’s caught on the bot- 
tom.” Then two tremen- 
dous tugs on the line such 
as no rock or log ever 
gave, a broad smile on 
the Indian’s face, and the 
fight is on. 
“Give him the line, let 
him run! Don’t try to 
hold him. He’s a big 
one!” Out he goes like 
a flash, then suddenly 
slackens his speed. “Reel 
him in a little before he 
runs again. There he 
goes! Hold your thumb 
on: «thatimine, § bight! 
Never mind if it does 
hurt. Don’t you dare 
lose him now!” Hus- 
And here’s how it’s done! 
of the North Country. 
band and Indian are almost leaping out 
of their places with excitement. Wil- 
son turns and twists the canoe with 
skillful hands, giving me all the ad- 
vantage he can. Now it all rests with 
me. Can I land him? I set my teeth 
and swear by all the Ojibway gods that 
I will. “Look out! Look out! He’s 
coming up. Watch him!” The guide 
swings the canoe around a bit and we 
gaze breathlessly as the taut line slowly 
rises from the depths where it has been 
hiding, and seventy feet back of us 
emerges a long, dark, wicked-looking 
back. If an Indian can turn pale, Wil- 
son does now as he gasps, “Yes. Yes. 
Big muskie! Big preacher all right. 
Look out! He’s going down.” 
OWN he goes with a sudden dash 
which sets the reel spinning. Now 
comes the real struggle. Again and 
again he leaps from the water, and no 
pirate’s treasure could be more gor- 
geous than the flash of his silver scales. 
Laboriously I reel him in a bit, each 
revolution a task by itself, then off he 
goes with a jerk of defiance. Shall I 
ever land him? It is twenty minutes 
since he struck, but it seems like a day 
to me. And now a horrible thing hap- 
pens. My reel begins to wobble, and 
I have visions of a broken rod, a 
snapped line, and one great beautiful 
fish fleeing away from the canoe and 
lost to me forever. Could I ever live 
(Continued on page 500) 

The canoe is the favored craft 
