time, to unharness my horse, whose wants having been attended to, we proceed to fortify ourselves with the breakfast prepared for us by the “old woman,” who had not seen “a strange face for three months, and better.” This breakfast consists of the perpetual ham and eggs, with hot bread and cold bread of more varieties than I feel equal at this present moment to describing. Half-past six o’clock sees us loaded with fishing tackle, food, kettle, &c., which miscellaneous collection of baggage has been divided between us—Jack taking, I must confess, the lion’s share—on our way to the first day’s fishing-ground, some five miles from our halting-place. For about three miles we follow a “track,” that is to say, a sign to the regular woodsman that somebody has been there before him,—nothing like our English notions of a path. Then we come on a little opening among the trees, and a half-ruined “lumberman’s” hut. Here we strike off into the regular untracked “bush,” and while we are scrambling along, loads and all, through the entangled underwood, let me say something of our guide “Jack.” He probably had a surname, but the nom de guerre by which he was known answered all our purposes so well, that we never thought of inquiring farther. His grandfather was an old soldier, discharged after “the war of independence” with a grant of land—the same spot we have already seen; and Jack, in addition to tolerably successful farming, was well known as a guide to every one whose inclination led him in that direction to try the perils of moose-hunting in winter, or the milder, but hardly less exciting, sport of salmon or trout-fishing in summer. His square, strong form, dark face, and clear, sharp, blue eyes, make him in appearance a good type of his class. At last, here we are at the end of our journey, at least, here we may begin to think of sport. I will try to give some idea of the place we find ourselves in; but, as I could not even flatter myself that the sketches I proceeded to take do it justice, I cannot expect to succeed better in writing. First of all, we are in the perfect solitude of the bush, a silence which “may be felt,” its effect is not lessened by the sound, at intervals, of our own voices. Above us the magnificent forest trees are almost hiding the blue sky, and only allowing flecks of bright light, here and there, to penetrate to the mass of interlaced boughs, and shrubs, and foliage underneath. Before us is a stream, varying from ten to twenty yards in breadth, rushing down the slight slope here in rapids, with rocks rising in all directions above the water; and there in a regular fall of eight or ten feet. From the point we are now at, we are to fish up the stream, a little distance to a pool, where there is a chance of our finding a salmon or two—trout being the primary object of our expedition.
Up the stream we go, wading, scrambling, slipping off rocks, catching flies and line in the boughs, which effectually prevent any but the most crafty kind of “cast;” but all this time catching trout, weighing from half a-pound to three times that weight, which we do not bother ourselves with carrying, but string together on thin sticks, and leave on rocks till we return again.
“What in the world!” shouts V., perched on a bough over a fall, to me, “are these mysterious beasts which swarm round my fly and won’t touch it?”
I know they are fish, common enough in these waters, but whose name I have forgotten at the moment,—like trout in size and shape, but of a paler colour, which won’t be caught. The most satisfactory part of the affair being, that they are worth nothing when they are caught.
Here is our pool, dull and still, with swamp on two sides. Here I put on the “gaudiest” fly of my collection, and try for a salmon. After waiting till V.’s patience is tried, I hook one, and thanks to Jack—whose part in the performances generally, by the bye, consists in carrying a business-like landing net, and finding us in conversation and advice on various subjects—I land him safely. However, we leave the rest of his tribe, if there are any in the pool, undisturbed, and proceed down the stream again. As the heat of the day comes on, we take up a position on a large shaded rock in the middle of the stream, and attack some cold meat and bread, which we wash down with large draughts of the water running beside us; then light our pipes, and enjoy the most delicious otium sine dignitate. I leave the two reposing, and wander off with my sketch-book, but the mosquitos and “black flies” take advantage of my hands being employed to attack me most vigorously, and soon succeed in “drawing blood.” I try what can be done with the blue veil I have provided myself with; but my unfeminine eyes are unable to penetrate successfully through its maziness, so I return in despair to the rocks, use my hands in keeping off the mosquitos, and wait patiently till we start for our evening’s fishing. At eight o’clock we leave off, having slaughtered, with two rods, nine and a-half dozen trout of all sizes, from three pounds and a-half downwards; horrible to relate, though, we leave two-thirds of them on different rocks, for we can’t eat them all, and we must only pack the very freshest of our last day’s fish to take home with us.
Now, then, for supper and bed. We must fix our camp before we eat, and here is the very place—in a “fork” made by a small stream—where several young firs growing in a sort of circle, make an apology for a roof with their branches. Now for half-an-hour’s work with our knives and axes to cut away the boughs, and to make a thick mattrass of small spruce branches for our bed, as well as to get logs for our fire. Out come thousands of fireflies as it grows darker, as if they mean to help us, but soon we shall have fire enough.
There—we have wood enough now, and while V. and I have been chopping, Jack has been collecting an armful of that white, glossy birch-bark which helps to make fire, light, wigwams, and canoes for the Indian. We build our fire in the most open corner of our camp (of which, by the bye, it is to occupy about half), and put a pile of logs close at hand to keep it up during the night. We have got the fire into a good blaze, and now for the cooking. We make a division of labour; Jack splits some sticks, plants one end in the ground close to the fire, divides fish—one for each stick—down the middle of the