call them fry, or pinks, or smolts, or peal, go to the sea usually a year after their birth, but with no invariable regularity, and will then average six ounces in weight, many undoubtedly waiting till the Fall, or eighteen months after birth; that they return the succeeding July grilse;[12] that the grilse spawn the following November, and after visiting the sea, reappear next Spring as salmon. The young fish are taken with the fly through the Summer in all the salmon rivers, and require a second glance to distinguish them from young trout, although they are very different, one decisive peculiarity being that their backs are arched or hogged, and another, as I have mentioned, that their eyes are large. The fry of trout—and recollect grown trout are not banded—have light sides, and are found usually in more quiet water. It would be well if sportsmen should call the fish in question respectively salmon fry, grilse, and salmon, and eschew all other fanciful names, as leading only to confusion.
Salmon are never taken in fresh water with any food in their stomachs; they are reported not to eat their young, and do not apparently feed on flies. The fry feed almost entirely on flies, and I have seen them pick off one after another as skillfully as a trout; but I have never distinctly seen a salmon take a natural fly. When they spring out of water, it is in play, and at such times, contrary to the rule with trout, casting over them will be in vain, they will not rise. Moreover, our flies do not in the least resemble the natural flies of the rivers, which are of a dull green, and the salmon rivers afford very few flies at best. Observe me, I do not refer to mosquitoes or black gnats, at neither of which would gentlemanly fish deign to look. My theory, therefore, is, that salmon do not feed during the spawning season, but are supported by the animalculæ in the water, and have poor commons at that, as their miserable condition soon testifies. Many varieties of fish live without apparent food, often with the additional disadvantage of infrequent change of water, as goldfish in a globe.
When salmon first arrive in the harbors, they coast along the shore, and are then taken in nets, which are required by law to have a mesh too large to capture grilse; later, they leave the warm shallows, and follow the cooler channel beyond the nets, which are only permitted to extend a certain distance. The tide-water fishing is therefore practically over by the 1st of August. Net fishing above the salt water is forbidden, or at least subject to the same restrictions, which, if they were enforced, would almost put an end to it; but, discreditable as it may seem, and short-sighted as such conduct unquestionably is, this law is totally disregarded in many rivers, where of course the fish are rapidly diminishing. They spawn over gravelly flats and pools, covering up the ova after impregnation, and then descend slowly, greatly emaciated, ugly and woe-begone, to the sea. At such times, although they will still take the fly, they are unfit to eat, and while they notwithstanding frequently fall a victim to the cruel spear of the murderous savage, no true angler nor honest man will harm them.
Casting the fly gracefully and effectively is a peculiar art, hard to acquire, and picturesque to witness; it is altogether different from slashing the water, and almost as difficult of mastery as the corresponding science of trout fishing. The rod, being long and comparatively heavy, must be held in both hands, which are changed occasionally so as to alternate that at the but, and teach the angler to cast over either shoulder. The line is lengthened to the proper distance, is raised with a springing jerk, swung out straight behind, and then again cast forward with the same springy motion. The work has to be done with the tip, which, except in casting against the wind, must be kept as elevated as possible. The stiffer the rod the more command the angler has over his line in avoiding the rocks and making the best of awkward places; but this is counterbalanced by the disadvantages of excessive weight and a stiffness in striking that frequently breaks the casting line. A rod will cast four times its length beyond the tip; one of sixteen feet, therefore, will cast sixty-four feet of line, ordinarily abundant; and although one of twenty feet will cover sixteen more feet, unless it is made of cedar it is uncomfortably heavy. A cedar rod would be perfection, but it is not to be trusted in the hands of a bungler.
When there is any current, and it is rare to take salmon elsewhere, the fly is cast across the stream and allowed to swing over the fish, which invariably lie with their heads up-stream. When a salmon intends to rise, he generally separates himself from his companions and waits till the fly approaches to the precise distance that pleases him. Then
not too hard, but as quick as the lightning from the sky, and this although contrary to the English books, on the ground that a salmon, if he rises once and fails to touch the fly, will always come again. If, however, he has tasted the unappetizing morsel, and has not been hooked, for he is quick to spit it out, you will see him no more. If you fail to hook a fish on the first rise, it is well if you can keep your impatience under control, to rest him by casting elsewhere a few times, and if you fail to strike him on the third rise, change your fly. Salmon are extremely particular and dainty in their tastes, and it is never advisable to fish too long with one fly unless they take it well.
The great rules are—keep out of sight, change your flies and rest the pools. The best time of a clear day is early and late, and in the midday heat not a boat nor a line should disturb the water; in fact, a pool that a canoe has crossed is ruined for the day, and when there is no rising, there is little good in casting. A pool that is not disturbed at night would be found much better, as a consequence, in the morning.
But after your fish is hooked, after he is played and almost played out, after you have exhausted him, and brought him skillfully and carefully to shore, he is not yet in the pot; nor will he be unless you have an assistant expert with the gaff. There are all sorts of directions about this important operation, some authors saying a fish must be gaffed in the shoulder, others preferring the tail, some the belly, and some the back, but, in fact, one place is as good another; the main points are not to miss nor graze him, and not to jerk so hard as to throw him off the gaff. To prevent this, where you anticipate finding only awkward aids, it is well to carry a gaff with a small barb, like an ordinary hook. I have had the indescribable pleasure of seeing my fish flung across the boat, and dropped in the water on the other side. The moment the fish is struck, the handle should be held perpendicular, so that he cannot flounce off.
The best size for this implement is a length of nine inches from the end of the shank to the middle of the bend, from the latter four inches in a straight line to the point, which should be delicate and sharp, and at least two inches and three-eighths from the inner edge of the shank opposite; the bend should swell out so as to be three inches across at its widest, and the end of the shank must be bent back and sharpened; the steel tapers gradually from the point to a thickness of one quarter of an inch. Being nothing more than a large hook, it is easily carried, and when wanted for use, fastened to any suitable stick by driving in the projection on the shank, and winding the whole with stout cord. For very large salmon, a stronger and larger gaff would be desirable, and for grilse a smaller one.
When fish run, and throw themselves out of water, some writers direct you to taughten your line; but I say, heed them not. Your line is well out and sunk to some distance, the very jump of the fish will consequently bring a great strain on the hook, without your aid, and many a fish is lost by such usage. On the contrary, if you give to him as he leaps, you diminish the tension, and then the quicker you take up the line after he has fallen back, the better. If, on the contrary, when he leaps he is near by you, and your line straight and out of water, he will try and strike it with his tail to break it, in which he may also be foiled by giving to him. My experience is to this effect, and you will soon find out, if the fish are large and strong, how hard it is to do otherwise.
It has been said that four times the length of the rod beyond the tip is the utmost length of line that can be handled with dexterity; it is not meant that more cannot be cast, for I have often cast five times the length, but with an effort that soon becomes wearisome, and, if across a rapid current, without the requisite command. It is best to fish down stream, if possible, as otherwise your line sinks, and even in fishing across there will be considerable slack line. This is a second reason for rapid striking. There is another mode of managing a line, which is sometimes called casting, and by which a distance of eighty yards can be covered. The angler has a rod as thick at the tip as one’s little finger, and a hair line as thick as the tip. Of course no reel can be used, as such a line would not run through the rings, or be contained on the barrel. The line tapers regularly to the fly. It is usually used in rapid water, and to cast, the fisherman waives his rod from side to side, lifting as much of it as possible clear of the water, and then throws out strongly with an underhand motion. The line rolls, as it were, raising itself from the water, as the impetus advances, till the fly is taken up and jerked over, so to speak, at an incredible distance. When a fish is struck he is drawn in by hand. I have not tried this proceeding sufficiently to speak positively, but think that the heavy waxed lines now in general use would answer to a comparative degree. It is a difficult though not refined mode of fishing, and is the only way of casting eighty yards.
The following is a list of the principal salmon and trout rivers of Canada and New Brunswick, with the distances of the former from Quebec, and such information as could be obtained concerning their character and condition. Those marked in italics have been leased to private individuals, but the leasing changes year by year.
In New Brunswick there are salmon in the St. John and its tributaries, but the best of the latter, the Nashwaak, has been closed with an impassable dam. From St. John it is easy to take the cars to Shediac, and cross to Prince Edward’s Island, where there is magnificent trout fishing, especially near Charlotte, and tolerable accommodation; or one can take the Quebec steamer to Bathurst and fish the Nipisiquit, which is admitted to be the best river in the province, or the Restigouche and its tributaries, an excellent stream, but much injured by spearing; or the Cascapediacs, which furnish some salmon and innumerable grilse. The Miramichi, between Shediac and Bathurst, is a fine large stream.
The streams in Canada emptying into the St. Lawrence from the south shore, are hardly worth mentioning as salmon rivers, having been ruined by mill-dams, with the exception of those that empty into Gaspé basin, but they all afford superior trout fishing. I would here remark, that where the name trout is mentioned in connection with the British Provinces, the Salmo Trutta Marina, or sea trout, is always intended; and the salmon fishing spoken of is fly fishing. The rivers that empty into Gaspé basin, such as the Dartmouth, York and St. John, are leased, as also the Bonaventure, that flows into the Bay of Chaleurs.
As explicit directions for travelling through the benighted regions called the British Provinces, the following are given from a somewhat unwillingly extended experience.
Take the night train or any route that will bring you to Boston before half past seven A.M., for at that hour the boat leaves for St. John, not St. Johns, which is in Newfoundland. If you are too late, you may still, by means of the cars, intercept the same vessel at Portland. This boat does not leave daily, but generally advertises in the New York and always in the Boston papers. It touches at Portland, where you may take a steamboat on its arrival to Calais, and proceed thence by railroad to the Scoodic River, where there is fine white, not sea, trout fishing, or stop at St. Andrews, whence there is a railroad in progress to Woodstock, on the St. John River. The Boston boat reaches St. John in about thirty-two hours, or at three o’clock; the fare is six dollars; the meals extra, and, consequently, extra good.
The Waverley House, in St. John, kept by J. Scammell, affords the best, though poor, accommodation, at a reasonable price. A train leaves on the arrival of the boat for Shediac, and makes the one hundred and ten miles in six hours, at a fare of three dollars. From Shediac a steamboat that connects with the train carries you to Chatham in twelve hours for three dollars and fifty cents, the meals being extra and infamous. At Shediac, John Q. Adams keeps the Adams House, and will furnish information by letter as to the time of the starting of the boats. Bowser’s Hotel is the best in Chatham. From Chatham to Bathurst, forty-five miles, you are compelled to travel in a stage that only leaves three times a week, and never on the arrival of the boat, and will occupy ten hours of your time at a charge of three dollars and a half; or you may take an extra for sixteen dollars. If you hire one of Kelley, the stage proprietor, make a tight bargain, for he is Biblical and takes in strangers. In case you should be too late to reach Bathurst the same day, or have leisure on your hands, stop at the Half-way House on the Tabasintac, which has the last syllable accentuated, and fish that night and the next morning for sea trout. They are taken from a horse-boat in abundance and of great size.
In Bathurst there is a good hotel called the Wellington, kept by Mr. Baldwin, with the efficient aid of Mary; and also a more private establishment, by Bela Packard, which is the customary resort of Americans. There is a telegraph from St. John to Bathurst, and Baldwin will meet at Chatham any guests that send him word, and bring them to Bathurst for fourteen dollars. In the latter place, Ferguson, Rankin & Co. will furnish all the heavy outfit, such as pork, biscuit, butter, tea, sugar, tobacco, and will have them ready put up if written to beforehand. As it is customary on the Nipisiquit to loan the guides blankets, the same firm keep them on hand, and will lend them to those that buy stores of them. Once or twice a month the Arabian leaves Shediac and stops within a couple of miles of Bathurst, and if you can manage to suit your time to hers, you can go direct and be ticketed through for ten dollars. Her days may be ascertained at the office of the Boston boats, but it is well to telegraph to Bathurst to have a canoe to meet you, as otherwise you may have difficulty in reaching town from the landing. The same steamer and its associate, the Lady Head, run to Dalhousie, at the mouth of the Restigouche, or a stage for that place leaves Bathurst three times a week. The Lady Head does not stop at Bathurst, on account of her draught of water.
On the Nipisiquit it is customary to have a camp-keeper or cook for the party, and two canoemen to each angler; they furnish the canoe and receive one dollar a day each. The following are good men: John, Peter and Bruno Chamberlain; John makes a good fly, but is sulky and willful; Bruno is lazy; Ned Veno and David Buchet, both of whom are excellent and willing, and Fabian Bodereau, who is a fair cook. To save your men some heavy work, where you do not intend to fish the Rough Waters, you drive with your stores to the Round Rocks, the Pabineau Falls, or, if you please, even to the Grand Falls, but the latter part of the road is bad.
The only fishing on the Miramichi is above Boiestown, and to reach it you leave St. John in the night or day boat for Fredericton, arriving there in eight hours at an expense of one dollar and a half. The night boat runs three times a week. The best house in Fredericton is the Barker House, kept by Mr. Fairweather, and in this city you must get your supplies for the woods. The stage leaves every Tuesday and Friday for Boiestown, nominally at ten A.M., and reaches that collection of huts nominally at six P.M. The fare is two dollars and a half, and the ordinary charge for an extra is ten dollars, but remember the stage proprietor is Kelley. The best tavern in Boiestown is kept by Avery, but about five miles up the river, at Campbelltown, is a nice house owned by William Wilson, and the true plan is either to write to him to meet you at Fredericton, or drive over to his place. He will engage your men, aid you with the supplies, provide you with bread, besides making you generally comfortable, and you have gained so much in the ascent of the river. The stage from Boiestown runs to Chatham, and by that means you may continue to the Nipisiquit, but there is no reliance to be placed on it, and an extra from Fredericton to Chatham, one hundred and ten miles, costs thirty dollars. The stage fare is seven, and there is no telegraph to Boiestown.
One of the most interesting ways of reaching the various rivers of New Brunswick is by portaging from the head-waters of one into those of another. For instance, a steamboat leaves Fredericton semi-weekly, when the water is not too low, for the Grand Falls on the St. John; a few miles above, the Grand River debouches, from the head-waters of which a short portage of a few miles takes you into the Waugan, one of the branches of the Restigouche, or you may stop below the Falls and ascend the Tobique, a noble river, full of salmon, but which, strange to say, will not take the fly, and from Lake Nictou, the source of the Tobique, you can readily portage into Lake Nipisiquit, and by ascending the main forks of the latter, a short portage puts you on the Upsalquitch, a branch of the Restigouche, and abounding in salmon. Another confluent of the St. John, the Shiktahauk, is crossed at its head by the Royal Road, where a wagon can be had to convey your baggage to a branch of the Southwest Miramichi, and from Newcastle, at the mouth of the latter river, you can ascend the Northwest Miramichi and strike the Nipisiquit near the Grand Falls. These are but a few of the simplest voyages that may be made, but a glance at the map, or a talk with any old Indian guide, will reveal many others. [13]
One bright moonlight night in the early part of Summer, a heavy wagon, drawn by two powerful horses, was bowling along one of the dreary level roads of the province of New Brunswick. It was loaded down with trunks on the rack, barrels under the seats, that were built on springs above the sides for that purpose, and bundles and bags innumerable in the bottom, and two long leathern cases that suggested salmon rods. It carried three men; the driver, tall and spare, with a shrewd eye, and long, curly, black hair, was turned half-way round in the seat, assuming an attitude that combined comfort with facility of conversation. On the back seat, a middle aged gentleman, whose hair and beard were silvered o’er, but whose eye was bright as in his earliest youth, and a younger man of stout build with brownish hair and beard. Their talk was of the forest, and many thrilling tales of danger, or exciting ones of the chase, were told; vivid descriptions of how the moose, the caribou, the red deer, met his fate; stories of the tiger, the wild boar, the rhinoceros and unwieldy elephant; or peaceful description of killing the beautiful trout, the fierce, striped bass, or the voracious mascallonge. The time wore pleasantly away as they passed along between the sombre lines of spruce and hemlock and juniper, as they ran into the deep shade or emerged into the open moonlight till they came in sight of the Nashwaak, seaming the dark earth like a vein of silver, when a glorious view presented itself to their attention. Far away as the eye could reach, stretched the valley of Nashwaak, silent as the repose of death; not a sound but the rattle of the wheels broke the still air, while the moon bathed the rocks, the earth, the trees, with its uncertain light, formed weird shapes out of the foliage, or cast strange shadows across the road. Still on, however, scarcely pausing—as every true sportsman must pause before the beauties of nature—the party were soon lost in the shady descent that led toward the bank of the stream, whose course they followed some miles, crossing it beyond, over a high, substantial bridge. The road then branched off, traversing the unbroken wilderness, where for miles not a habitation was visible, till midnight found them amid a heavy shower at McCloud’s, the half-way house from Fredericton to Boiestown.
The horses under the shed, a sound thumping on the door brought out the host, who attended to the wants of man and beast, and sent them on their way rejoicing, as soon as the storm had abated. There was little variety in the scene; the road was mostly level and good, the forest was of the same dull character, with many dead trunks towering up amid it; there were few houses and no settlements, and the country was principally one vast plain. As the morning light began to streak the east with grey, they came in sight of the peaceful Miramichi, and turning off from the main road across the Taxes River, followed the course of the larger stream, till, nearly opposite a beautiful spring, where they had stopped to water their horses, they turned into a barway, and in a moment more reached Wilson’s, their prospective head-quarters.
Wilson’s habitation was a quaint-looking log house, perched on the edge of a bank overhanging what is called the interval, or fruitful stretch of level land lying between the river and the hills, and its evident antiquity bore testimony that it had belonged to one of the earliest settlers.
A well-stocked garden, an extensive barn, a large drove of sheep and cows, suggested what an industrious and comely wife and daughter confirmed, that Wilson’s was a well-to-do family.
As a general thing, the people of this region are of the most short-sighted possible character; they live for the present, and an easy way of making a dollar is irresistible, though it may entail the final loss of ten. The country is slowly going back to a savage condition; farmers, instead of attending to their farms, speculate in lumber, because it enriches one man in fifty; mortgage their farms, which are sold under foreclosures to strangers and allowed to grow up with weeds and bushes. Tens of thousands of acres are in this condition, and are being fast rendered irreclaimable. Instead of encouraging fishermen to come and spend money among them, although they admit it is about the only money they see, they annoy and overcharge at such a rate that they have driven away all but a few from Fredericton. Instead of preserving and increasing the fish, they obstruct the channel entirely with nets, striving by one grand haul to destroy the supply forever. To this general rule Wilson is the only exception, and may be relied on, not only to do whatever in reason is required of him, but to do it at a moderate price. His only extravagant charge is for driving to Fredericton to meet his guests.
The guides were waiting for us, and after making the requisite preparations and passing a comfortable night in the old log house, we started next day on our journey toward the head-waters of the Miramichi. Our canoes were made of the log of a tree, and familiarly called dug-outs, and were admirably adapted to the purpose. Being extremely long, sometimes thirty feet, and narrow, they offer every convenience for poling, draw but little water, and are not injured by contact with a rock, that would pierce the thin bark of the delicate birch canoe, and will hold their way better against a strong rapid. They are made of the trunk of some towering branchless pine-tree that the adventurous woodsman has marked during the winter for his own, and which, after being cut down, is transported to a convenient place, where it is hewn into the shape of the outside of the boat. Augur holes are bored in the bottom, and pegs, two inches long, are driven, to answer for guides as to thickness. The inside is then roughly hewn away, till the pegs are reached, when it is smoothed off, being left two inches thick at the bottom, and a half inch at the gunwale. Slender knees are introduced at proper distances to prevent its warping under the sun; a brace is fastened across from gunwale to gunwale, near the stem and stern, and the boat is complete. It is worth about twelve dollars, and having neither braces nor thwarts, but an open space its entire length, is convenient for holding a long rod, and being steadier under foot, offers many advantages over the birch canoe. It is particularly excellent in descending a shallow river, where occasional contact with rocks is inevitable; but is too heavy to portage comfortably. For rapid travel, either up or down stream, it is invaluable.
Our baggage was stowed, a comfortable seat made with the end of the tent upon the bottom of the canoe, our rods were rigged out for an occasional cast, and we commenced the ascent of the “Smiling Water.” There had been heavy and continuous rains, and quite a freshet had now changed its ordinary placid exterior into one of angry turbulence. The river poured down fierce and wild, crested with foam and discolored with sand and decayed matter. But we made swift progress; starting five miles above Boiestown, we soon passed the last settlement, and entering among the mountains, amid which flows the upper stream, trusted ourselves alone to the dangers of the wilderness, to the mercy of the black-flies for our comfort, and to our skill as sportsmen for our support.
Ten months of close confinement in the city, years amid the horrors of civilization, had well prepared us to appreciate a return to man’s natural state of savage life; long contact with vice and folly had made us eager to taste once more of truth and purity, the communion with nature uncorrupted and unsullied; to feel the air blow through the waving trees instead of down narrow streets; to hear the water rippling over its native bed, and not through Croton pipes; to see the sun shine from out the blue sky, instead of being reflected amid murk and smoke from heated bricks.
The spruce and fir-trees stretched in solid mass like a green wall on either side; occasionally, a white pine loomed above them, or a birch, with its satin bark, broke the dull hue; or where the landscape was more open, the graceful elm or willow stood forth in solitary beauty; and the juniper, with its endless names of hackmatac, tamarack, larch or cypress, waved its weird arms aloft; or the light, quivering poplar, with its never-resting leaves, cast an uncertain shade.
The weather had been changeable all day, occasionally bright and pleasant, the next moment dark and lowering—now the sun shining bright and warm over the hillsides, then the rain driving in spiteful showers and veiling them in mist. The storm no sooner forced on our overcoats than the sunshine persuaded them off. Toward night, when heavier and blacker clouds obscured the sky, we determined to camp, and chose a point opposite a little tributary rivulet called Sandy Brook.
That evening and the next day were passed completing our camp equipage of tables, chairs, basins, and various little articles, and in waiting for the river to fall. During this time one of those pleasant incidents occurred that are intensely enjoyed in rough woodsman’s life; two gentlemen who had been up the river and were returning, stopped and dined with us. There was a grand discussion over flies, resulting in a mutual exchange, and a general mourning over the condition of the water, with, however, the encouragement that the freshet had destroyed the nets and let the fish up to the higher grounds.
Next day we killed our first fish of the season. I had gone above the island at the head of the pool opposite our camp, and was fishing slowly down, taking occasionally a brook trout, when there came a heavier rise, a louder plash, and a fierce run that made my reel discourse sweetly. The fish had struck me in the broken water, and it was uncertain what he was till suddenly he sprang twice his length out of water, showing the silvery sides and gleaming scales of the lovely grilse; again and again he sprang in air, making the water fly as he fell back, and doing his best to break the line or shake out the hook. Bravely he fought, taking advantage of the current to run out line, and rubbing against rocks to cut it through. In vain, foiled at each attempt, his strength rapidly diminishing, he was slowly brought nearer and nearer, till a dexterous blow of the gaff finished the struggle.
Joyful at the good omen, we hastened to our camp, and were met by my companion, Dalton, who proudly exhibited a similar trophy. There was a grand supper that night, and strong hopes that the flood would abate, hopes that were destined to a cruel disappointment when next day the stream was found to be higher than ever, and heavy clouds portended a second deluge.
Our next camp was at Still Water Brook, a name that the present condition of that streamlet strongly belied. We did not, however, remain long, our sport being confined to grilse, and not many of those, and when an English officer, who had been fishing above, called to say he had taken all the fish he wanted at a station further on, we broke up camp at once, to the great disgust of our lazy cook, who thought he had cut his “sprunghungle,” or stick that supports the kettle over the fire, for the last time. We pushed on to Burnt Hill, a famous camping-ground among all those that fish the Miramichi, and there, on the open point near the rock at whose base is the deep pool where salmon lie when the water is warm we established our sylvan home for the last time.
Burnt Hill is so named from having been burnt over, years ago, and is still a mass of dead and blackened trunks, that tower in fantastic shapes toward the sky. Next morning, having selected my choicest cariboo fly, Abraham pushed the canoe across the boiling torrent, so that I could fish near the rocky shore opposite. Having made several casts toward the bank, he swung the canoe in, and, running its nose on a rock, gave me a chance to fish the centre of the channel. I had hardly cast, when from out the curling wave rushed a mighty monster, which gleamed a moment in the sunshine and disappeared. I felt a heavy, dull strain on my rod, the fish swam deep and seemed unconscious of what had happened. Then, suddenly aroused to his danger, a magnificent salmon rushed down-stream and vaulted high out of water. Abraham glanced at me; I returned the look, but not one word was spoken. The fish returned to his former station, as though disdaining a struggle with a fragile cord and contemptible fly, and remained there some moments, heavily swimming round and round. Suddenly he became alarmed, and away he went, thirty yards at least, the line whistling through the rings and the reel hissing with the speed. He made a splendid leap and paused.
I had just time to tell Abraham to swing his boat off the rock where she was resting, when the fish started again. Down he darted; the rod bent, the line flying through the water, and after him came the pursuers. He hesitated an instant above the worst rapids, and then sped down them; once in a while I could see him amid the foam and flying spray, as he rolled himself half out of water over some heavy wave; but my attention was occupied in keeping the line clear of rocks, and not exerting too much strain upon it. Admirably did Abraham handle the canoe. He was alone; the water seethed and boiled round us broken into a mass of fierce waves, small cascades and gleaming foam. It poured with raging current over high bowlders, and swept between narrow rocks. He stood erect in the stem, his eye, taking the measure of every falls, the strength of every eddy; he swung the canoe’s head first one way then another, easing her down over the higher waves, that, curling against the stream, broke over the bow in mimic showers, and pushing strongly through the circling eddies. Not a rock did he touch, not a moment did the boat escape from perfect command, and when we were launched upon the quiet bosom of the deep pool at the foot of Burnt Hill Rapids, the fish was on the line. We each drew a long breath and again exchanged glances. It was a beautiful spot to kill a fish. The water, all white and raging above, formed a broad eddy, that washed the base of the rock on which I now stood. Although there was still a strong current in the centre, an expanse of clear water spread out at our feet, into which, after each rush, the fish could be easily led, and where his mad leaps were the only risk. It was our first fish, and I exercised the utmost care; not till he was almost dead did I force him to the surface, where Abraham, with one blow of his gaff, brought our prize to land.
What a beauty she was! The small, delicate head pronounced her a female, the destined parent of myriads cut off in her prime. The brilliancy of her flashing scales gave token that not long since had she been roaming free from danger along the shores of the seacoast, and her broad back and deep chest announced her heavy weight. Glorious in her outward appearance, our keen appetites pictured to our imaginations the rich red flesh in layers, with flakes of pearly fat between, the delicate thin sides of the stomach, the depth of solidity in her broad back. Our thoughts dwelt for a moment on the fine juicy flavor her fifteen good pounds would furnish for many a meal. But above all did we recollect with pride how well both of us had done in killing the first salmon in the Miramichi.
Mr. Dalton had been watching the contest from the bank opposite, and we returned together to the camp, where libations were duly poured forth in honor of our first capture, and preparations were made for a grand entertainment.
That evening around the fire, after supper was finished, and the genial pipe was soothing as well as invigorating our minds, and after several personal adventures had been related, Duncan commenced the following history of
“You saw that point of land we came by the other day, where I told you a dead man was carried out from the woods? Well, I was there when he was killed. We had been logging in the woods, and doing pretty well till we tried to draw out an uncommon heavy stick of timber. Sam Masters was with us—we used to call him Swearing Sam, from a bad habit he was given to—and Sam had taken a great idea to have that stick of timber taken out before night; but the horses were tired and it was late, and after we had dragged it part of the way all but Sam proposed to leave it till to-morrow. But Sam insisted that he was not going to give up, and when we all agreed to quit, he got mad and swore he would have that timber out alone if he had to go to hell for it, and work till the day of judgment. We tried to persuade him off, but stay he would, and we left him with the horses and returned to our camp, which we had made at the landing. After supper was finished, and it began to be late, we became anxious about Sam, and when he did not arrive, at near midnight, all hands set out to look him up.
“We had not much trouble to find the horses; they felt cold and hungry, and were neighing for their supper, but were surprised to see the log rolled off the truck, and Sam gone. But the next thing we noticed was Sam’s head just out from the edge of the log, that lay across his body. It was an awful sight; the moon was shining bright on his face, that was turned up toward the sky, but all swollen and discolored, with the eyes wide open and starting out of their sockets, and his tongue sticking out of his mouth, and the blood frozen round his nostrils and the corners of his lips. He must have been dead for hours. We had a hard time to roll the log off, and then he was mashed all out of shape, so we carried him the best way we could to the shanty, and next day wrapped him in a blanket and took him down the river. His wife was all struck of a heap when she saw him, for Sam was a good husband; if he did swear more than he ought, he never swore at her.”
“He would have been squelched sooner if he had,” put in Dalton, sotta voce.
“We felt pretty bad,” continued Duncan; “but after a few days had to go back and finish hauling the logs, for we had a lot cut. It was cold weather, and the wind howled through the pines till sometimes, at night, we almost thought we heard hallooing in the woods, but no one cared to go out and see. About two weeks after our return, I happened to leave my axe where I was chopping, and as snow had begun to fall pretty fast, and it might be snowed over, I went back after it. I had forgotten precisely where it was left, and lost a good deal of time looking about, all the while the snow coming harder and harder, so that the track was soon covered. That was not much matter, for I knew the country well; but it was growing dark, and the snow blinded me, so that I could not see plainly.
“You may believe I did not delay any; but after hurrying on as fast as possible for an hour or two, thought things looked strange; the trees grew thick and the ground rough and steep, and I could not tell where I was. I searched about for some landmark, but it was almost dark, and after trying in vain, and having a heavy overcoat with me, but no matches, I was about to crawl under the roots of a dead tree and make the best of it, when I heard somebody shouting in the distance.
“There is no mistake, but I was glad, and sung out back, and clambered over the trees and stones toward the voice; but what was my surprise, on approaching, to see our own team, and one of the boys driving. They had no intention of hauling another log, and must have been foolish to think of it in that snow; but, stranger than all, when I called, did not stop or take any notice. To tell the truth, I began to feel mighty queer, especially as the driver was shaped uncommon like Sam, and I suddenly remembered that it was that night a month ago when he hauled his last stick of timber. I followed slowly along and never said a word; the driver, whoever he was, was riding on the log, and now and then his voice shouted out what sounded in the storm mighty like a curse. Suddenly the drag struck a stump, the horses made a spring, the log started, the driver tried to jump, but slipped, and the log fell on him with crushing force. There was an awful shriek in the next blast that drove a shower of snow in my eyes, and when I looked again, horses, log and man were gone. I knew well enough where I was then, and did not take long to reach the camp, when the boys hardly knew me, I was so white and dazed like.”
“Let us see,” said Abraham, holding his chin in a thoughtful way; “it was after that you swore off liquor?”
“Yes,” said Robert. “The other boys hardly knew the liquor cask they had left in the woods next day, if I have heard right.”
“You need not laugh, boys,” said Duncan, solemnly; “there is no fun in seeing a ghost, and I had not taken more than a few drinks. Besides, you know how, next year, when Jake, and Dick, and some others were in the same camp, they heard Sam’s old chest, that we had left there, creak as though some one had sat on it, and how the shanty door was taken off the hinges and held upright in the middle of the floor. And the black dog that left no track in the snow, but used to run along the ridge pole of moonlight nights, when nobody was in the shanty; and, finally, how the roof was all taken off when Tom’s party was there, and although it was covered with snow, not a drop fell inside. No, no, spirits are no laughing matters.”
“Especially prime spirits,” suggested the cook.
“Jamaica or Holland, but I never heard of New Brunswick spirits before,” said Robert.
“Well, I can just tell you one thing,” said Duncan, aroused; “there is not one of you dare sleep in that shanty alone. Come, I will pole any of you down there to-morrow that would like to try. Who will go?”
A dead silence fell on the party, for, truth to tell, though bold enough round the fire together, the dwellers on the Miramichi are a good deal given to superstition, and not one of the party but some time or other had fancied he heard Sam’s ghost shouting to his team of a stormy night near the landing.
“Well,” said Abraham, slowly, “I never saw but one ghost. It was a moonlight night, with a little snow on the ground, and I was alone, crossing a cleared lot where the stumps stood pretty thick, when I noticed, crouched down behind one of them, a figure of some sort that looked like an old woman. It had no bonnet or hat, nothing but a cap on its head; it wore a long, tattered dress, that blew about in the wind, while I could just make out a pair of thin, white arms; but her face was black as a coal. It is no use to say I was not scared, for I think I was. There were some crazy people about at that time, who had escaped from the madhouse; but I was pretty sure I could outrun any of them, ’specially a woman, and I knew it was no use running from ghosts, so I concluded the best thing to do was to keep right along and pretend to take no notice; but, do my best, I could not keep my eyes off the old woman. I tried to whistle, but not a sound would come. I only blew a little, and not very steady at that. I tried to sing, but the first note I uttered made me jump ten feet; I thought it was somebody else’s voice, as sure as fate. I had sidled off as far as I could on account of a gully there was, and did not like to go down that for fear she should think I was afraid. The distance between us was growing less and less, and as I watched her sharper than ever, she appeared to make one or two moves, and then stop; but all of a sudden, she jumped up, threw off her clothes, and started after me. I uttered one yell, and turned; but, as luck would have it, caught my foot in a root under the snow, and rolled headlong down the steep side of the gully.
“I do not know what I said, I think I prayed; but I made considerable noise, anyway, and poked my head into a bush, and tried to burrow under the snow. This lasted some time; but hearing nothing more, and not finding myself killed, my courage returned; I took out my head, and slowly crawled up the bank. Peering carefully over the edge, I saw a stump where the old woman had been crouching, burnt at the top, with some snow on it; there was a dead bush and roots at the bottom, while a little further off lay a quantity of dead birch bark, waving about in the wind. ‘Abe,’ said I to myself, ‘you have been an awful fool to take a fired stump, a little snow, and some birch bark for a ghost. Never do so again.’ And I never have, and have never been so scared from that day to this.”
After a hearty laugh at Abraham’s fright, Robert was called upon, and responded as follows:
“I cannot tell you a ghost story, but one of as scared a man as ever was seen. It happened at this very place, too, when we were camped on this spot, and was brought to my mind by what you were reading to-day of the man hunting a grizzly bear, and leaving off because the track got too fresh. Jim Baker was with us. He had lived most of his life in the settlements, and had only just come among us, but could play the fiddle and sing a song, and must have had a good ear for music, for among the first things he did was to learn to call moose. He was uncommonly proud of the performance, and though he had never seen a moose, promised to keep the camp in meat. Well, he kept calling all the time, and sure enough one day, while we were camped here, a bull answered.
“A good hunter might call till he was grey before he could bring a moose in broad daylight right up to the camp; but it was a fool’s luck, and sure enough we soon heard him rapping through the bushes, and then jump into the brook and begin wading down. Jim had out the gun, and started off to crawl along the edge in the bushes to meet him. We could see them both; Jim crept along as fast as he could at first, and the bull came faster yet down the stream without showing a sign of fear. Soon Jim began to go slower, and finally stopped altogether, while the moose kept right on toward him, till he was within fifty yards, when he paused and took a general survey. Jim raised the gun, but when he did so the animal seemed to have his curiosity aroused, and advanced several steps toward Jim, who lowered his gun, and backed a few paces till the moose stopped again. Jim again raised the gun, and again the moose advanced and Jim retreated. This went on till the moose became satisfied, and with a snort bounded into the bushes and was gone. When Jim came back we asked him why he did not shoot, and he said we need not think he was afraid; he intended to shoot, but did not know how the gun carried ball.”
The next day my friend killed his first salmon, and strange to say, thus we continued to the end, each catching precisely the same number of fish. The days were beautifully warm, and rather given to weeping, but fresh and bracing; whereas the nights were deliciously cool, almost too cold for Summer, and demanded plenty of warm blankets. Living in the most primitive but comfortable style, feeding off a rough table, and often cooking half the dinner ourselves, but with a glorious feeling of entire independence, the heavens above, the earth beneath, and all nature round us, we had a splendid time, and many fish came to our net.
Thus the pleasant days flew by; the sport ever honest, manly, invigorating and exciting, varying in luck, at times abundant in its yield, and then utterly unproductive—the uncertainty added zest; while the evenings and hot middays were enlivened with the story, joke or latest novel. Many an idle hour, when the sun shone too resplendent for the hope of sport, did we while away, the men seated or stretched at length in various picturesque attitudes, and one of us reading aloud. But the time came when this was to end, and on the eleventh day the edict was promulgated to break up camp and return.
The tent fell and was packed, the pots and pans were huddled together, our camp stores stowed, and we reëmbarked for the descent of the river. Keeping rods ready for an occasional cast, we swept along; the water was high, our men were good boatmen, the canoes were strong, and we rushed through the foaming torrent at a gallant rate.
At Rocky Bend my friend struck five fine grilse successively, and lost all but one, much to his chagrin. He laid it to the size of his hooks, alleging they were too large; but what genius will arise to explain how it is that salmon break away without any severe strain on, or damage to, the tackle. Is it a defect in the shape of the hook? If so, should it bend to one side, or curve in or out at the point? Or is it in the force of striking, or place where the hook holds? The matter is so complex, that the most careful investigation has left me even without a theory. Some of my friends swear by one of the above plans, others by another; I have tried them all, and still the fish escape as frequently as ever.
As we approached a well-remembered spot where I had taken a fine grilse in ascending, Abraham slowly said:
“Take care as we come down to this pool, for I am like the man that once shot a bear at a cleared spot just below, and whenever afterward he came to the same place, he clambered on the highest stump, and looked around to see whether there was not another bear. Wherever we took one fish, I always expect to take another.”
I told him it was somewhat the same with me, but in that instance we were doomed to disappointment—there was no second bear.
At Sandy Pond we made our camp for the night, as my friend had never seen a fish killed with the spear, and, although admitting its unsportsmanlike character, wished to experience how it was done.
When darkness had settled down, our men kindled a flaming fire of pine knots, in an iron basket attached to a pole that projected from the bow of the canoe, and seating my friend amidships between them, pushed off. They pulled against the stream, the bright light bringing out the stones at the bottom of the water in strong relief, exposing everything within a radius of twenty feet. Behind it stood the spearsman, erect, his quick eye glancing in every direction, the firelight falling upon his reddened visage and illuminating his many graceful attitudes. With rapid motion he swung the spear from side to side as any passing object attracted his attention, ready for the death-dealing blow. With perfect facility he kept command of the boat, shoving her bow from the rocks and guiding it through the proper channel; occasionally the spear was sent glancing through the water, and in a moment a grilse brought struggling to the surface and thrown into the bottom of the canoe, where the fire rays were reflected from his scales like the liquid gleam of the diamond.
It was a picturesque sight, the waving flame, the active spearsman, the graceful canoe, and the intense darkness around; but it was cruel and barbarous, and my friend desisted before many fish had suffered.
Next day returned us safe and sound to Wilson’s hospitable log mansion, where a hearty welcome awaited us. Our extra stores were divided among the men, a farewell spoken, the team once more harnessed, and we set out to join the stage at Boiestown for Chatham, on the road to the Nipisiquit.
A strange place is Boiestown; built by an American named Boies, it is a mere collection of unpainted shanty-like houses but with Yankee shrewdness, located upon a fine stream of never-failing water, with excellent mills and water power, it might have been a thriving place had not Boies, its presiding spirit, met with reverses. The maelstrom of lumber speculation had ingulfed him, and with him the prosperity of the town. There was no native capable of filling his place, and the glory of Boiestown had departed.
The stage was due at six o’clock, but at six o’clock it did not come, nor at seven, eight, nine nor ten. We told Wilson to return for us in the morning, and retired to rest in the nearest tavern, leaving word to be called when it did come.
At midnight there was a pounding at the door announcing the arrival of the conveyance that was to carry us and our baggage, two heavy trunks, seventy miles. It was a light one horse-wagon. We went to bed again, and next morning found the stage-driver still at Boiestown, having turned out his horse to graze.
Wilson, however, soon arrived, and we started on that dreary road, following the descent of the Miramichi to its mouth. There is one, and but one, pretty view in the entire seventy miles, and that is as you ascend the first mountain beyond Boiestown. Looking back, the peaceful valley that we had just left, stretching away to our camping-ground, lay basking in the sunlight. In the distance, scarcely visible among the trees, were the few houses that compose Campbelltown; nearer was the straggling village of Boiestown, and at our feet ran the placid river, leaving broad intervals upon its banks, and meandering between smiling islands. The hay was ripening in the meadow, the oats were still luxuriant in their fresh green, the bushes lined the occasional fences or marked out the narrow swamps, while here and there were dotted the majestic white pine, the towering spruce, the noble elm or the graceful willow, and a dead tree now and then stretched its ungainly limbs toward the clouds.
Beyond, however, we fell into one dull, dreary routine; civilization was behind us, the few farms once cultivated were falling back into their savage state, the houses tumbling down, the barns in their last stages of dilapidation, everywhere windows broken out, doors off their hinges, huge cracks in roof or walls, told of general decay. The people had fled, no one knew whither; and of the few that were left, the stupidity, avarice and extortion were incredible. They impose upon and annoy travellers and fishermen till they have almost driven them away. The stages fail to run or to connect as they undertake to do. No one appears to know their times of starting or arriving. Boats advertise to leave on days when they never have left, to stop at places that are not laid down on the map, but are colloquially applied to an entire district; and omit places where they do stop. No man knows anything except his own individual business, and but little of that. The inhabitants mainly draw their support from the river, and yet are busy day and night endeavoring to ruin it; the nets from opposite shores lap over one another or reach from bank to bank, and are set week in and week out, while there is a fish running; the smallest mesh is used, small enough to capture trout or herring. The few fish that do reach the spawning beds are chased with the merciless spear without cessation till long after they are worthless as food. Yet the people think the river has improved because the laws are partially enforced at its mouth. Netters complain of the spearers, and the spearers of the netters, but neither do anything but harm. The upper stream is alive with nets, although netting should be permitted nowhere above tide water.
The only crops of the region are potatoes, oats and hay; for nine months there is rigorous winter, and for three months cold weather. The great productions are black flies, midgets and mosquitoes. The Lord help such a people, for the people will never help themselves. Let my blessing remain with the land; I shall never return for it.
The river itself is not only lovely to contemplate but would afford to reasonable beings abundant support. In May and June the Gaspereau or alewives, a species of herring, Alosa Tyrannus, make their appearance in myriads, and ascend to the lakes to spawn; in June and July the beautiful sea trout appear in shoals and urge their course to the head-waters and the cool brooks; in July and August come the splendid salmon, struggling against every impediment that the wit of man, or want of wit, can place in their way, to perpetuate their species for that foolish man’s support, and build their nests in the broad sandy pools. The lively, energetic grilse come last, fighting vigorously to reach their sylvan homes. Not one of all these races is taken fairly or properly, nor when his destruction will do most good and the least harm.
Having dined at Decantelon’s, we reached Lynch’s by dark, where we supped and passed the night, and next day, after breakfasting at Magee’s, arrived at Newcastle by nine in the morning. Seeing a boy, my friend inquired:
“Boy, when does the stage leave that runs to Newcastle?”
“A’most any time; one has gone, but there will be another going in an hour or two.”
“Where does it start from? We must inquire for ourselves, I see.”
“Oh, anywhere round the streets; up one street and down another.”
“Now that cannot be,” continued my friend sternly; “it must start from some place, and we do not wish to miss it.”
“Well, it will be along; it goes all around.”
“It has to cross that ferry, I believe,” said my friend, almost savagely.
“Yes,” said the boy.
“We will wait there where it cannot miss us.”
“Why, there it comes now; don’t you see it on the other side of the river?”
Sure enough, there it was; and from that moment it never escaped our eye. There was a post-office near by.
“Postmaster,” said my friend, “as you must know, on account of your official position, will you tell me when the Princess Royal leaves Chatham for Shediac.”
“Oh, yes; every Monday and Friday. It is advertised in the paper.”
“Now there is some satisfaction about this,” and out came his note-book. “Every Monday and Friday—ah, yes, the paper says—— Why, the paper says Monday and Thursday!”
“Impossible! So it does; why she never sails on Thursdays. There must be some mistake.”
“Somewhere no doubt,” said my friend, despondingly, returning the note-book; nor was he much relieved by being afterwards informed by the stage-driver that she sailed neither Thursday nor Friday, but only Monday.
At Chatham, Mrs. Bowser received us hospitably and noisily, and there we met some good sportsmen and fine fellows. The sportsmen are the salt of New Brunswick earth; they have not a trait in common with the other inhabitants, but are jovial, friendly and open-hearted. One cannot know too many nor see too much of them. We owed them many thoughtful attentions, which we will repay to them or others of the race of fishermen, passing on the obligation.
Forty-five more miles of weary road, crossing in its course the Tabasintac, that splendid trout stream, and we reached Bathurst, where we found the guides awaiting us at the Wellington House, having received our telegram, and next day we began “life in the woods” once more.
Our camp was pitched at the Round Rocks, the lowest fishing station on the Nipisiquit, whither we drove with our luggage in a wagon, and met the canoes. Our rods were hastily put together, and in Rock Pool, at the second cast, I took a fine grilse. Others followed, and next day came the salmon. Splendid fellows just from the sea, their scales resplendent with the reflected light of their ocean homes; solid, strong and brave, leaping again and again, madly disdaining restraint, and fighting fiercely till the last. The water was strong; in some places the rapids were impassable. Sad to tell, the fish knew it, and alas, too often darted down them, whisking their tails in joy at their recovered freedom. Our sport was magnificent.
After fishing the Round Rocks and the Bush Falls, we ascended the river to the Pabineau Falls, where we paused only to exchange friendly greetings with two fellow fishermen, and continuing through the dark, silent waters of the Bittabock, dined at the Middle Landing, where the stream pours seething in its narrow channel between high rocky banks, and where it is said to be six fathoms deep. We passed another angler at the Chain of Rocks, and reached the Grand Falls and pitched our tent on its precipitous shores by sundown.
Wild indeed is the scenery at the Grand Falls, the highest point the salmon reach. The falling water, in long ages, has worn away a channel between high bluffs, and now, in ordinary seasons, pours through a narrow gorge that once could be leaped across, but which has been blasted to admit the passage of timber. The sheet of water falls in a mass of foam some forty feet, the spray rising in volumes, and producing in the summer’s sun a beautiful mist rainbow. The granite rocks have been worn in deep holes by revolving bowlders, and in winter the whole chasm, filled with ice and water, must be grand and impressive in extreme.
There is a smaller, second fall, which the salmon occasionally try to leap; but they spawn in the pebbly beds below, the whole course of the stream, especially at the basin a short distance from the falls.
The principal natural fly of the Nipisiquit is about three-quarters of an inch long, has a yellow body and orange tip, two short whisks and two long, yellow antennæ, six thick yellow legs, a large, black head, a thick yellow body with nine rings, and four reticulated, dull yellowish, transparent wings. They are not very abundant, but there are many small nocturnal flies, that will be drawn together with a light in swarms.
It is extremely interesting to stand on the rocks overhanging the river and watch the salmon, their every motion distinctly visible, and their numbers readily counted. When one is casting the fly, his companion can see the fish move to take it, and call out when to strike. Salmon seem to rise very slowly and deliberately and can be observed of a bright day together in crowds, holding their own against the current with a scarcely perceptible effort. Not one in a hundred will notice the fly; ordinarily nothing but the fins are in motion, but occasionally an individual will give a flirt and turn up his side, which flashes like silver through the water.
We fished the Camp, the Falls, the Rock and Cooper’s Pools with great success; the fish were numerous, fine conditioned, large and strong. We had many a fierce contest; often was our line run out for seventy yards; the fish made splendid leaps and vigorous rushes, but we lost very few, as there was but one bad place. That was below the Falls Pool, where a stake had caught in the middle of the current; I found its locality by losing a fine grilse and a casting line.
The days wore on most pleasantly; salmon occupied all our thoughts. The first thing in the morning we looked for salmon, then we fished for salmon, then we breakfasted on salmon, and then again fished for them; then made flies to catch them, next dined on them, again fished for them, and then supped off them, and lastly dreamed of them. But the happiest and longest of summer days must end; our time came to return, and the camp was struck.
The river is quite evenly divided between the various stopping-places, and it is almost exactly three miles between each. There are six good fishing places: the Grand Falls, Middle Landing, Bittabock, Pabineau Falls, Round Rocks and Rough Waters.
We stopped at our original camp, the Round Rocks and there we struck our last fish. My friend hooked in the middle of the current a noble specimen, that gave such splendid play that I laid down my rod to witness the contest. The bright sides of the fish, as he leaped again and again out of water, proved that he was fresh run and strong, an impression his fierce rushes confirmed. He was played with great care and delicacy; but alas! suddenly darted across the current, took a turn around a rock, and returning passed round another. All hope was given up, but when the canoe was skillfully pushed across after him, he was found to be still on and the line uninjured by the smooth rocks. My friend, greatly rejoiced, had another severe contest, and foiled two determined efforts at escape down an impassable rapid, and when compelled to follow him through some very rough water, did it in a masterly style, standing erect in the canoe, which was ably handled by the two Chamberlains, and guiding the fish through the safest channel. Nearly an hour had been expended, and the fish, almost exhausted, made one last effort to reach the next rapid, and being prevented, came alongside, feebly turning over and over. My friend unfortunately had put on a double leader and could not reel up short, so the salmon lay deep under water, dimly seen, when John attempted to gaff him. At that instant the fish turned, the gaff slipped, he made a rush into the current, and one cry from my friend, “There, he’s off,” told the tale. The line sprung up into the air, we looked at one another in silence; the occasion was too sad for words. My friend sat down upon the rocks in despair; I felt for, but had no power to console him. At last, slowly and sadly, he broke the mournful silence: “Let us go home,” he said; and we went.
Good bye, lovely Nipisiquit, stream of the beautiful pools, the fisherman’s elysium; farewell to thy merry, noisy current, thy long quiet stretches, thy high bluffs, thy wooded and thy rocky shores. Long may thy music lull the innocent angler into day dreams of happiness. Long may thy deep holes afford secure havens of safety for the salmon, where they can bid defiance to the rapacious net and murderous spear. Long may thy romantic scenery charm the eye and gladden the heart of the artist and welcome the angler to a happy sylvan home. And often may I visit thee, beautiful Nipisiquit!