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Ten Cents a Copy. 


For Forest and Stream. 
A FORECASTLE YARN. 

BY MARTINGALE BOBSTAY. 
T is of the good yacht ‘‘Nonesuch”’ 
I’m going for to tell, 
And the peculiar circumstance 
That unto her befell: 
’Twas about a dozen years ago, 
Or mayhap a trifle more, 
That craft swung to her anchor, 
Off the Staten Island shore. 
Her owner was Dick Flasher. 
“Of a social habit stock, 
One of the old three bottle men, 
A “chip of the old block;”’ 
A good bit willful, in his way, 
Ah! wouldn't he carry sail! 
When ‘twas greasy up to windward, 
And blowing half a gale. 
The season for the races 
Had started up the gents, 
And daily the excitement 
Was a getting more intense; 
For every jaunty skipper 
Had his touching upto do, 
To be ship-shape, and a taunto, 
For the day of rondy-voo, 
Well, the Nonesuch was as rakish 
As a Yankee privateer; 
A gently swelling water line, 
Clean run, and easy sheer. 
Her masts were tall and taper; 
Her cable had a spring, 
and she sat just like asea-bird, 
All ready to take wing. 
’Twas a pleasant summer evening, 
In the balmy month of June, 
When all the bay was dancing 
In the glimmer of the moon; 
The owner had a jolly crowd 
Of friends aboard that night, 
And the champagne corks were poppin’, 
While the boys were getting tight. 
’Twas then that Flasher struck his fist 
Upon the capstan head, 
Swaying about upon his pins, 
As “eight bells’’ struck he said: 
That by the ‘*Flying Dutchman,” 
He was bound the cup to win; 
Or, once outride of Sandy Hook, 
He never would come in. 
Well, sir, if you’ll believe me, 
When the spurt came off next day, 
One schooner was a missing 
That started down the bay; 
The wind was from the south’ard, 
And the fog rolled in from sea, 
And everybody wonderea 
Where the Flasher boat could be. 
With spy-glass at the Highlands, 
Dick’s friends did watch for him, 
Until they all did specify 
That he had ‘‘doused his glim;” 
And when the wind was piping, 
Or the weather growing thick, 
They drank unto his memory, 
In ‘‘Green-seal’’ bought on tick. 
At last arrived a fishing-smack, 
One of the down East sort, 
Whose captain said he met a yacht, 
That asked him to report; 
Her name it was the Nonesuch, 
She was crowding on all sail, 
Chasing another clipper, 
That was scndding with the gale. 
The sails were torn and dingy, 
That once were white and new, 
The taper masts were badly sprung, 
The sheer was not so true; 
Her gray-haired crew in tattered rig, 
Looked wistfully ahead, 
And the champagne corks were poppin’, 
As the stranger onward sped. 
You see, the ‘‘Flying Dutchman” 
Had chanced to come ashore, 
And noted in his log-book, 
The oath that Flasher swore. 
So ever since, in gale and fog, 
The race goes round about; 
But Dick is bound to win it, 
Tf the liquor don’t give out,” 
Summer Sports in Canada. - 
Péche & Malcolm—on THE NORTH ST. ANNS. 


N my return from Belle Truite I paid Charlo in full 
and made arrangements with him by which he was 
to hold himself in readiness to accompany me to Péche a 
Maleolm, on the North St. Anns, a trip I had long contem- 
plated, while I went into Quebec to replenish my sadly de- 
pleted stock of flies and tackle. 
On my return I met Mr. Charlo staggering along the road 
most gloriously drunk. He had taken advantage of my 
absence and wended his way to the settlement and there 
exchanged his earnings for David’s high wines. To all my 
abuse, he only replied with a drunken laugh, snapping his 
fingers and attempting to perform a pirouette, which, to 
my no small delight, landed him in the ditch beside the 
road, on his back, where I should have allowed him to re- 
main had not Charley Wolff, through a sympathetic feeling 
perhaps, helped him out and bundled him, head foremost, 
into the cart. 
These Indians are unreliable dogs when within five miles 
of whisky, though trustworthy enough in the bush and 
good guides and camp men. 
The sportsman visiting this region for the first time, un- 
1ess ambitious of penetrating far into the wilderness, would 
do well to procure the services, as guides, of some of the 
old settlers, many of whom are familiar with the good 
hunting and fishing grounds in the closer proximity of the 
settlements. George Neil, of Valcartier, is considered by 
the many Quebec gentlemen who employ him to be the 
prince of hunters and good fellows, and the fact remains 
unchallenged. His charges are, I believe, one dollar per 
diem and board. 
For distant journeys, an Indian guide is indispensible, 
owing to their superior knowledge of woodcraft and the in- 
terior of the country. The sportsman, in the latter instance, 
must come prepared to do battle with those pests of the 
wilderness—the black flies, and to suffer some of the priva- 
tions that the limited amount of baggage which himself 
and guides can carry over the mountains, will entail. His 
initiation may prove a severe one, but he will never regret 
it. The beauties that will be opened up to him at every 
step, and the sport he will enjoy, either with his rifle or 
rod, as chance or fancy may dictate, will prove an ample 
recompense. Jam not an enthusiast myself over hunting, 
though let me add, I have witnessed, and at times enjoyed 
good sport with both rifle and shot gun. If little is said in 
these articles about it, it is not on account of any scarcity 
of game, but the inclination to pursue it. I am at all times 
more at home with a fly rod in my hands than with rifle or 
gun, though I never go into the bush without one or the 
other. 
For the benefit of the hunter I will here give a short 
resume of the game most to be met with. First in order 
comes the moose, cariboo, lynx, and bear, and then follows 
the small fur-bearing animals, such as the fox, beaver, 
otter, fisher, and mink. Wild fowl and partridges fill up 
the list. 
I made up the packs in the evening in the bark corseau, 
the most convenient for carrying during the warm weather, 
when a blanket pack would act very much like a blister. 
It is constructed from a large sheet of balsam bark, doubled 
in two and sewed up at the sides, a couple of hoops like 
those of a barrel are then fastened inside to keep it distend- 
ed, and it is complete on the addition of a pack strap, 
which, when ready for carrying, is placed across the chest 
and shoulders, the corseau resting onthe back. If properly 
made, it is waterproof, and fish are more easily transported 
in them when salted for keeping. 
Before dawn I was down at Mr. Neilson’s and found 
Charlo sober after his night’s rest. We crossed the river 
on the flat, and at sunrise we halted at the falls on the river 
Auaz Pins, and on a large rock lighted our fire and prepared 
the morning meal. This little river literally teems with 
trout, and I have known one rod to take out in a few hours 
§ Volume I, Number 25, 
NEW YORK, THURSDAY, JAN. 29, 1874. — 103 Fulton Street, 


ten dozen, though few would exceed a haif a pound in 
weight. At its entrance into Lake St. Joseph, good bass 
fishing can be had by trolling. Near us are the vestiges of 
a settlement, attempted years ago, though abandoned on 
the death of the founder and the consequent giving out of 
the means necessary to carry it to a successful completion. 
Our road is along the river until we reach the lakes of the 
same name, five in number. We skirt the first two and 
then strike over the mountains to the west. Near the junc- 
tion of the St. Anns and Tuillerie Rivers, we crossed the 
latter by wading through its rapid current. The river was 
high, and when I reached the middle of the channel the 
force of the waters almost swept me from my feet, and I 
deemed it politic to remain quiet until helped out of the 
predicament by Charlo’s coming to my assistance. Here 
it was that I met with the first evidence of those fearful 
hurricanes that sometimes sweep through the gorges of the 
mountains, levelling everything before them. They are 
termed wind-falls. This one was some two acres in width 
and miles in length. Such had been the force of the storm 
that not a twig was left standing. Mighty monarchs were 
lying uprooted and so snarled among the others that a way 
was witn difficulty forced through it. The Indian takes 
advantage of it to set his snare for the unsuspecting cariboo 
or moose that attempts to cross it. At irregular distancesa 
sort of road is cut or cleared through it, and in the centre, 
carefully concealed from view, is spread out the fatal noose 
elevated about a foot above the ground. It is then fully 
secured to a sapling which is bent over some projecting 
tree. The deer gets his foot into the noose, and disturbing 
the spring, it jumps up firmly, fastening the noose about the 
leg. All its frantic efforts to free itself are unavailing, and 
the rifle of the Indian puts an end to its existence. 
Numbers are in this way taken every season. 
We camped this night on a little hard wood knoll above 
the river. I shot a number of partridge, and these served 
up d@ la sauvage, are a dainty tit bit. . With a dog to rise 
them, a very handsome bag might be made with a gun ina 
few hours. Sometime after dark I was startled by what 
I at first thought was a human voice some distance shouting 
“he! he 1” 
“Charlo,” I said, ‘‘there is some one calling.” 
He smiled, and asked me if I had forgotten our old 
friends, the loons. 
I comprehended it all now in a moment. There is 
scarcely a lake of any size that,is not inhabited by a pair of 
these singular birds. The cry we heard was from a loon 
on Grande Lac, fully a mile and a half from where we were 
camped. 
We journeyed up the river next day, alternately in the 
water and along the bank, as the exigencies of the case re- 
quired. In the afternoon we reached the Peéhé a Malcolm. 
Long before we arrived I saw the frowning mountain, la 
Bee de la Perdrix, that stands sentinel over the pool. It 
rises itself six or seven hundred feet perpendicularly from 
the river which flows deep and silently atits base; on the 
east side the river widens and forms a pool several acres in 
extent. A hard gravelly bottom with numerous cold springs 
gushing from the banks and the opposite cliff forms the 
Péché a Malcolm. It derives its name from a Mr. Malcolm, 
who fished this pool, and in a week’s sport took out several 
hundred trout, running from one and a half pounds to five. 
They smoked their fish and constructed themselves a dug 
out, and awaiting a favorable rise in the river, which takes 
place rapidly after a rain, floated down to St. Raimond with 
their booty. One party only has visited it since; my old 
companion, Mr. Neilson, and Charlo, and the success of 
that trip told in my old friend’s graphic style, inspired me 
to the present undertaking. 
We constructed our bark cabin on the site of the old one,and 
having put together a raft, Ispliced my rod in the evening 
and selected my most tempting flies to be fully prepared 
for the struggle with the mighty denizens of the pool. 
At dawn I shoved off on the raft above the pool, and drift- 
ing down a short distance, anchored. The first cast is over 
an old sunken log, the fly hovers over it for an instant and 
lightly touches the water. A moment more and it is seized 
