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IX
THE HALCYON IN CANADA THE halcyon or kingfisher is
a good guide when you go to the woods. He will not insure smooth water
or fair
weather, but he knows every stream and lake like a book, and will take
you to
the wildest and most unfrequented places. Follow his rattle and you
shall see
the source of every trout and salmon stream on the continent. You shall
see the
Lake of the Woods, and far-off Athabasca and Abbitibbe, and the unknown
streams
that flow into Hudson's Bay, and many others. His time is the time of
the
trout, too, namely, from April to September. He makes his subterranean
nest in
the bank of some favorite stream, and then goes on long excursions up
and down
and over woods and mountains to all the waters within reach, always
fishing
alone, the true angler that he is, his fellow keeping far ahead or
behind, or
taking the other branch. He loves the sound of a waterfall, and will
sit a long
time on a dry limb overhanging the pool below it, and, forgetting his
occupation, brood upon his own memories and fancies. The past season my friend
and I took a hint from him, and, when the dog-star began to blaze, set
out for
Canada, making a big detour to touch at salt water and to take New York
and
Boston on our way. The latter city was new to
me, and we paused there and angled a couple of days and caught an
editor, a
philosopher, and a poet, and might have caught more if we had had a
mind to,
for these waters are full of 'em, and big ones, too. Coming from the mountainous regions of the Hudson, we saw little in the way of scenery that arrested our attention until we beheld the St. Lawrence, though one gets glimpses now and then, as he is whirled along through New Hampshire and Vermont, that make him wish for a fuller view. It is always a pleasure to bring to pass the geography of one's boyhood; 'tis like the fulfilling of a dream; hence it was with partial eyes that I looked upon the Merrimac, the Connecticut, and the Passumpsic, — dusky, squaw-colored streams, whose names I had learned so long ago. The traveler opens his eyes a little wider when he reaches Lake Memphremagog, especially if he have the luck to see it under such a sunset as we did, its burnished surface glowing like molten gold. This lake is an immense trough that accommodates both sides of the fence, though by far the larger and longer part of it is in Canada. Its western shore is bold and picturesque, being skirted by a detachment of the Green Mountains, the main range of which is seen careering along the horizon far to the southwest; to the east and north, whither the railroad takes you, the country is flat and monotonous. The first peculiarity one
notices about the farms in this northern country is the close proximity
of the
house and barn, in most cases the two buildings touching at some point,
— an
arrangement doubtless prompted by the deep snows and severe cold of
this
latitude. The typical Canadian dwelling-house is also presently met
with on
entering the Dominion, — a low, modest structure of hewn
spruce
logs, with a
steep roof (containing two or more dormer windows) that ends in a smart
curve,
a hint taken from the Chinese pagoda. Even in the more costly brick or
stone
houses in the towns and vicinity this style is adhered to. It is so
universal
that one wonders if the reason of it is not in the climate also, the
outward
curve of the roof shooting the sliding snow farther away from the
dwelling. It
affords a wide projection, in many cases covering a veranda, and in all
cases
protecting the doors and windows without interfering with the light. In
the
better class of clapboarded houses the finish beneath the projecting
eaves is
also a sweeping curve, opposing and bracing that of the roof. A
two-story
country house, or a Mansard roof, I do not remember to have seen in
Canada; but
in places they have become so enamored of the white of the snow that
they even
whitewash the roofs of their buildings, giving a cluster of them the
impression, at a distance, of an encampment of great tents. As we neared Point Levi,
opposite Quebec, we got our first view of the St. Lawrence. "Iliad of
rivers!" exclaimed my friend. "Yet unsung!" The Hudson must take
a back seat now, and a good way back. One of the two or three great
watercourses of the globe is before you. No other river, I imagine,
carries
such a volume of pure cold water to the sea. Nearly all its feeders are
trout
and salmon streams, and what an airing and what a bleaching it gets on
its
course! Its history, its antecedents, are unparalleled. The great lakes
are its
camping-grounds; here its hosts repose under the sun and stars in areas
like
that of states and kingdoms, and it is its waters that shake the earth
at
Niagara. Where it receives the Saguenay it is twenty miles wide, and
when it
debouches into the Gulf it is a hundred. Indeed, it is a chain of
Homeric
sublimities from beginning to end. The great cataract is a fit sequel
to the
great lakes; the spirit that is born in vast and tempestuous Superior
takes its
full glut of power in that fearful chasm. If paradise is hinted in the
Thousand
Islands, hell is unveiled in that pit of terrors. Its last escapade is the
great rapids above Montreal, down which the steamer shoots with its
breathless
passengers, after which, inhaling and exhaling its mighty tides, it
flows
calmly to the sea. The St. Lawrence is the type
of nearly all the Canadian rivers, which are strung with lakes and
rapids and
cataracts, and are full of peril and adventure. Here we reach the oldest
part of the continent, geologists tell us; and here we encounter a
fragment of
the Old World civilization. Quebec presents the anomaly of a
mediæval European
city in the midst of the American landscape. This air, this sky, these
clouds,
these trees, the look of these fields, are what we have always known;
but the
houses, and streets, and vehicles, and language, and physiognomy are
strange.
As I walked upon the grand terrace I saw the robin and kingbird and
song
sparrow, and there in the tree, by the Wolfe Monument, our summer
warbler was
at home. I presently saw, also, that our republican crow was a British
subject,
and that he behaved here more like his European brother than he does in
the
States, being less wild and suspicious. On the Plains of Abraham
excellent
timothy grass was growing and cattle were grazing. We found a path
through the
meadow, and, with the exception of a very abundant weed with a blue
flower, saw
nothing new or strange, — nothing but the steep tin roofs of
the
city and its
frowning wall and citadel. Sweeping around the far southern horizon, we
could
catch glimpses of mountains that were evidently in Maine or New
Hampshire;
while twelve or fifteen miles to the north the Laurentian ranges, dark
and
formidable, arrested the eye. Quebec, or the walled part of it, is
situated on
a point of land shaped not unlike the human foot, looking northeast,
the higher
and bolder side being next the river, with the main part of the town on
the
northern slope toward the St. Charles. Its toes are well down in the
mud where
this stream joins the St. Lawrence, while the citadel is high on the
instep and
commands the whole field. The grand Battery is a little below, on the
brink of
the instep, so to speak, and the promenader looks down several hundred
feet
into the tops of the chimneys of this part of the lower town, and upon
the
great river sweeping by northeastward like another Amazon. The heel of
our
misshapen foot extends indefinitely toward Montreal. Upon it, on a
level with
the citadel, are the Plains of Abraham. It was up its high, almost
perpendicular, sides that Wolfe clambered with his army, and stood in
the rear
of his enemy one pleasant September morning over a hundred years ago. To the north and northeast
of Quebec, and in full view from the upper parts of the city, lies a
rich belt
of agricultural country, sloping gently toward the river, and running
parallel
with it for many miles, called the Beauport slopes. The division of the
land into
uniform parallelograms, as in France, was a marked feature, and is so
throughout the Dominion. A road ran through the midst of it lined with;
trees,
and leading to the falls of the Montmorenci. I imagine that this
section is the
garden of Quebec. Beyond it rose the mountains. Our eyes looked
wistfully
toward them, for we had decided to penetrate the Canadian woods in that
direction. One hundred and twenty-five
miles from Quebec as the loon flies, almost due north over unbroken
spruce
forests, lies Lake St. John, the cradle of the terrible Saguenay. On
the map it
looks like a great cuttlefish with its numerous arms and tentacula
reaching out
in all directions into the wilds. It is a large oval body of water
thirty miles
in its greatest diameter. The season here, owing to a sharp northern
sweep of
the isothermal lines, is two or three weeks earlier than at Quebec. The
soil is
warm and fertile, and there is a thrifty growing settlement here with
valuable
agricultural produce, but no market nearer than Quebec, two hundred and
fifty
miles distant by water, with a hard, tedious land journey besides. In
winter
the settlement can have little or no communication with the outside
world. To relieve this isolated
colony and encourage further development of the St. John region, the
Canadian
government is building1
a wagon-road through the wilderness
from
Quebec directly to the lake, thus economizing half the distance, as the
road
when completed will form with the old route, the Saguenay and St.
Lawrence, one
side of an equilateral triangle. A railroad was projected a few years
ago over
nearly the same ground, and the contract to build it given to an
enterprising
Yankee, who pocketed a part of the money and has never been heard of
since. The
road runs for one hundred miles through an unbroken wilderness, and
opens up
scores of streams and lakes abounding with trout, into which, until the
road-makers fished them, no white man had ever cast a hook. It was a good prospect, and
we resolved to commit ourselves to the St. John road. The services of a
young
fellow whom, by reason of his impracticable French name, we called Joe,
were
secured, and after a delay of twenty-four hours we were packed upon a
Canadian
buckboard with hard-tack in one bag and oats in another, and the
journey began.
It was Sunday, and we held up our heads more confidently when we got
beyond the
throng of well-dressed church-goers. For ten miles we had a good stone
road and
rattled along it at a lively pace. In about half that distance we came
to a
large brick church, where we began to see the rural population or habitans.
They came mostly in two-wheeled vehicles, some of the carts quite
fancy, in
which the young fellows rode complacently beside their girls. The
two-wheeler
predominates in Canada, and is of all styles and sizes. After we left
the stone
road, we began to encounter the hills that are preliminary to the
mountains.
The farms looked like the wilder and poorer parts of Maine or New
Hampshire.
While Joe was getting a supply of hay of a farmer to take into the
woods for
his horse, I walked through a field in quest of wild strawberries. The
season
for them was past, it being the 20th of July, and I found barely enough
to make
me think that the strawberry here is far less pungent and high-flavored
than with
us. The cattle in the fields and
by the roadside looked very small and delicate, the effect, no doubt,
of the
severe climate. We saw many rude implements of agriculture, such as
wooden
plows shod with iron. We passed several parties of
men, women, and children from Quebec picnicking in the "bush." Here
it was little more than a "bush;" but while in Canada we never heard
the woods designated by any other term. I noticed, also, that when a
distance
of a few miles or of a fraction of a mile is to be designated, the
French
Canadian does not use the term "miles," but says it's so many acres
through, or to the next place. This fondness for the
"bush" at this season seems quite a marked feature in the social life
of the average Quebecker, and is one of the original French traits that
holds
its own among them. Parties leave the city in carts and wagons by
midnight, or
earlier, and drive out as far as they can the remainder of the night,
in order
to pass the whole Sunday in the woods, despite the mosquitoes and black
flies.
Those we saw seemed a decent, harmless set, whose idea of a good time
was to be
in the open air, and as far into the "bush" as possible. The post-road, as the new
St. John's road is also called, begins twenty miles from Quebec at
Stoneham, the
farthest settlement. Five miles into the forest upon the new road is
the hamlet
of La Chance, the last house till you reach the lake, one hundred and
twenty
miles distant. Our destination the first night was La Chance's; this
would
enable us to reach the Jacques Cartier River, forty miles farther,
where we
proposed to encamp, in the afternoon of the next day. We were now fairly among the
mountains, and the sun was well down behind the trees when we entered
upon the
post-road. It proved to be a wide, well-built highway, grass-grown, but
in good
condition. After an hour's travel we began to see signs of a clearing,
and
about six o'clock drew up in front of the long, low, log habitation of
La
Chance. Their hearthstone was outdoor at this season, and its smoke
rose
through the still atmosphere in a frail column toward the sky. The
family was
gathered here and welcomed us cordially as we drew up, the master
shaking us by
the hand as if we were old friends. His English was very poor, and our
French
was poorer, but, with Joe as a bridge between us, communication on a
pinch was
kept up. His wife could speak no English; but her true French
politeness and
graciousness was a language we could readily understand. Our supper was
got
ready from our own supplies, while we sat or stood in the open air
about the
fire. The clearing comprised fifty or sixty acres of rough land in the
bottom
of a narrow valley, and bore indifferent crops of oats, barley,
potatoes, and
timothy grass. The latter was just in bloom, being a month or more
later than
with us. The primitive woods, mostly of birch with a sprinkling of
spruce, put
a high cavernous wall about the scene. How sweetly the birds sang,
their notes
seeming to have unusual strength and volume in this forest-bound
opening! The principal
singer was the white-throated sparrow, which we heard and saw
everywhere on the
route. He is called here le
siffleur (the whistler), and
very
delightful
his whistle was. From the forest came the evening hymn of a thrush, the
olive-backed perhaps, like but less clear and full than the veery's. In the evening we sat about
the fire in rude homemade chairs, and had such broken and disjointed
talk as we
could manage. Our host had lived in Quebec and been a school-teacher
there; he
had wielded the birch until he lost his health, when he came here and
the
birches gave it back to him. He was now hearty and well, and had a
family of
six or seven children about him. We were given a good bed
that night, and fared better than we expected. About one o'clock I was
awakened
by suppressed voices outside the window. Who could it be? Had a band of
brigands surrounded the house? As our outfit and supplies had not been
removed
from the wagon in front of the door I got up, and, lifting one corner
of the
window paper, peeped out: I saw in the dim moonlight four or five men
standing
about engaged in low conversation. Presently one of the men advanced to
the
door and began to rap and call the name of our host. Then I knew their
errand
was not hostile; but the weird effect of that regular alternate rapping
and
calling ran through my dream all the rest of the night. Rat-tat, tat,
tat, — La
Chance; rat-tat, tat, — La Chance, five or six times repeated
before La Chance
heard and responded. Then the door opened and they came in, when it was
jabber,
jabber, jabber in the next room till I fell asleep. In the morning, to my
inquiry as to who the travelers were and what they wanted, La Chance
said they
were old acquaintances going a-fishing, and had stopped to have a
little talk. Breakfast was served early,
and we were upon the road before the sun. Then began a forty-mile ride
through
a dense Canadian spruce forest over the drift and boulders of the
paleozoic
age. Up to this point the scenery had been quite familiar, —
not
much unlike
that of the Catskills, — but now there was a change; the
birches
disappeared,
except now and then a slender white or paper birch, and spruce
everywhere
prevailed. A narrow belt on each side of the road had been blasted by
fire, and
the dry, white stems of the trees stood stark and stiff. The road ran
pretty
straight, skirting the mountains and threading the valleys, and hour
after hour
the dark, silent woods wheeled past us. Swarms of black flies
—
those insect
wolves — waylaid us and hung to us till a smart spurt of the
horse, where the
road favored, left them behind. But a species of large horse-fly, black
and
vicious, it was not so easy to get rid of. When they alighted upon the
horse,
we would demolish them with the whip or with our felt hats, a
proceeding the
horse soon came to understand and appreciate. The white and gray
Laurentian
boulders lay along the roadside. The soil seemed as if made up of
decayed and
pulverized rock, and doubtless contained very little vegetable matter.
It is so
barren that it will never repay clearing and cultivating. Our course was an up-grade
toward the highlands that separate the watershed of St. John Lake from
that of
the St. Lawrence, and as we proceeded the spruce became smaller and
smaller
till the trees were seldom more than eight or ten inches in diameter.
Nearly
all of them terminated in a dense tuft at the top, beneath which the
stem would
be bare for several feet, giving them the appearance, my friend said,
as they
stood sharply defined along the crests of the mountains, of cannon
swabs.
Endless, interminable successions of these cannon swabs, each just like
its
fellow, came and went, came and went, all day. Sometimes we could see
the road
a mile or two ahead, and it was as lonely and solitary as a path in the
desert.
Periods of talk and song and jollity were succeeded by long stretches
of
silence. A buckboard upon such a road does not conduce to a continuous
flow of
animal spirits. A good brace for the foot and a good hold for the hand
is one's
main lookout much of the time. We walked up the steeper hills, one of
them
nearly a mile long, then clung grimly to the board during the rapid
descent of
the other side. We occasionally saw a
solitary pigeon — in every instance a cock —
leading a
forlorn life in the
wood, a hermit of his kind, or more probably a rejected and superfluous
male.
We came upon two or three broods of spruce grouse in the road, so tame
that one
could have knocked them over with poles. We passed many beautiful
lakes; among
others, the Two Sisters, one on each side of the road. At noon we
paused at a
lake in a deep valley, and fed the horse and had lunch. I was not long
in
getting ready my fishing tackle, and, upon a raft made of two logs
pinned
together, floated out upon the lake and quickly took all the trout we
wanted. Early in the afternoon we
entered upon what is called La
Grande Brûlure, or
Great
Burning, and to
the desolation of living woods succeeded the greater desolation of a
blighted
forest. All the mountains and valleys, as far as the eye could see, had
been
swept by the fire, and the bleached and ghostly skeletons of the trees
alone
met the gaze. The fire had come over from the Saguenay, a hundred or
more miles
to the east, seven or eight years before, and had consumed or blasted
everything
in its way. We saw the skull of a moose said to have perished in the
fire. For
three hours we rode through this valley and shadow of death. In the
midst of
it, where the trees had nearly all disappeared, and where the ground
was
covered with coarse wild grass, we came upon the Morancy River, a
placid yellow
stream twenty or twenty-five yards wide, abounding with trout. We
walked a
short distance along its banks and peered curiously into its waters.
The
mountains on either hand had been burned by the fire until in places
their
great granite bones were bare and white. At another point we were
within ear-shot, for a mile or more, of a brawling stream in the valley
below
us, and now and then caught a glimpse of foaming rapids or cascades
through the
dense spruce, — a trout stream that probably no man had ever
fished, as it
would be quite impossible to do so in such a maze and tangle of woods. We neither met, nor passed,
nor saw any travelers till late in the afternoon, when we descried far
ahead a
man on horseback. It was a welcome relief. It was like a sail at sea.
When he
saw us he drew rein and awaited our approach. He, too, had probably
tired of
the solitude and desolation of the road. He proved to be a young
Canadian going
to join the gang of workmen at the farther end of the road. About four o'clock we passed
another small lake, and in a few moments more drew up at the bridge
over the
Jacques Cartier River, and our forty-mile ride was finished. There was
a stable
here that had been used by the road-builders, and was now used by the
teams
that hauled in their supplies. This would do for the horse; a snug log
shanty
built by an old trapper and hunter for use in the winter, a hundred
yards below
the bridge, amid the spruces on the bank of the river, when rebedded
and
refurnished, would do for us. The river at this point was a swift,
black stream
from thirty to forty feet wide, with a strength and a bound like a
moose. It
was not shrunken and emaciated, like similar streams in a cleared
country, but
full, copious, and strong. Indeed, one can hardly realize how the
lesser
water-courses have suffered by the denuding of the land of its forest
covering,
until he goes into the primitive woods and sees how bounding and
athletic they
are there. They are literally well fed, and their measure of life is
full. In
fact, a trout brook is as much a thing of the woods as a moose or deer,
and
will not thrive well in the open country. Three miles above our camp
was Great Lake Jacques Cartier, the source of the river, a sheet of
water nine
miles long and from one to three wide; fifty rods below was Little Lake
Jacques
Cartier, an irregular body about two miles across. Stretching away on
every
hand, bristling on the mountains and darkling in the valleys, was the
illimitable spruce woods. The moss in them covered the ground nearly
knee-deep,
and lay like newly fallen snow, hiding rocks and logs, filling
depressions, and
muffling the foot. When it was dry, one could find a most delightful
couch
anywhere. The spruce seems to have
colored
the water, which is a dark amber color, but entirely sweet and pure.
There
needed no better proof of the latter fact than the trout with which it
abounded, and their clear and vivid tints. In its lower portions near
the St.
Lawrence, the Jacques Cartier River is a salmon stream, but these fish
have
never been found as near its source as we were, though there is no
apparent
reason why they should not be. There is perhaps no moment
in the life of an angler fraught with so much eagerness and impatience
as when
he first finds himself upon the bank of a new and long-sought stream.
When I
was a boy and used to go a-fishing, I could seldom restrain my
eagerness after
I arrived in sight of the brook or pond, and must needs run the rest of
the
way. Then the delay in rigging my tackle was a trial my patience was
never
quite equal to. After I had made a few casts, or had caught one fish, I
could
pause and adjust my line properly. I found some remnant of the old
enthusiasm
still in me when I sprang from the buckboard that afternoon and saw the
strange
river rushing by. I would have given something if my tackle had been
rigged so
that I could have tried on the instant the temper of the trout that had
just
broken the surface within easy reach of the shore. But I had
anticipated this
moment coming along, and had surreptitiously undone my rod-case and got
my reel
out of my bag, and was therefore a few moments ahead of my companion in
making
the first cast. The trout rose readily, and almost too soon we had more
than enough
for dinner, though no "rod-smashers" had been seen or felt. Our
experience the next morning, and during the day and the next morning,
in the
lake, in the rapids, in the pools, was about the same: there was a
surfeit of
trout eight or ten inches long, though we rarely kept any under ten,
but the
big fish were lazy and would not rise; they were in the deepest water
and did
not like to get up. The third day, in the
afternoon, we had our first and only thorough sensation in the shape of
a big
trout. It came none too soon. The interest had begun to flag. But one
big fish
a week will do. It is a pinnacle of delight in the angler's experience
that he
may well be three days in working up to, and, once reached, it is three
days
down to the old humdrum level again. At least it is with me. It was a
dull,
rainy day; the fog rested low upon the mountains, and the time hung
heavily on
our hands. About three o'clock the rain slackened and we emerged from
our den,
Joe going to look after his horse, which had eaten but little since
coming into
the woods, the poor creature was so disturbed by the loneliness and the
black
flies; I, to make preparations for dinner, while my companion lazily
took his
rod and stepped to the edge of the big pool in front of camp. At the
first introductory
cast, and when his fly was not fifteen feet from him upon the water,
there was
a lunge and a strike, and apparently the fisherman had hooked a
boulder. I was
standing a few yards below, engaged in washing out the coffee-pail,
when I
heard him call out: —
"I have got him
now!" "Yes, I see you
have," said I, noticing his bending pole and moveless line; "when I
am through, I will help you get loose." "No, but I 'm not
joking," said he; "I have got a big fish." I looked up again, but saw
no reason to change my impression, and kept on with my work. It is proper to say that my
companion was a novice at fly-fishing, never having cast a fly till
upon this
trip. Again he called out to me,
but, deceived by his coolness and nonchalant tones, and by the lethargy
a
glimpse of the fish, I gave little heed. of the fish, I gave little
heed. I
knew very well that, if I had struck a fish that held me down in that
way, I
should have been going through a regular war-dance on that circle of
boulder-tops, and should have scared the game into activity if the hook
had
failed to wake him up. But as the farce continued I drew near. "Does that look like a
stone or a log?" said my friend, pointing to his quivering line, slowly
cutting the current up toward the centre of the pool. My skepticism vanished in an
instant, and I could hardly keep my place on the top of the rock. "I can feel him
breathe," said the now warming fisherman; "just feel of that
pole!" I put my eager hand upon the
butt, and could easily imagine I felt the throb or pant of something
alive down
there in the black depths. But whatever it was moved about like a
turtle. My
companion was praying to hear his reel spin, but it gave out now and
then only
a few hesitating clicks. Still the situation was excitingly dramatic,
and we
were all actors. I rushed for the landing-net, but being unable to find
it,
shouted desperately for Joe, who came hurrying back, excited before he
had
learned what the matter was. The net had been left at the lake below,
and must
be had with the greatest dispatch. In the mean time I skipped about
from
boulder to boulder as the fish worked this way or that about the pool,
peering
into the water to catch a glimpse of him, for he had begun to yield a
little to
the steady strain that was kept upon him. Presently I saw a shadowy,
unsubstantial something just emerge from the black depths, then vanish.
Then I
saw it again, and this time the huge proportions of the fish were
faintly
outlined by the white facings of his fins. The sketch lasted but a
twinkling;
it was only a flitting shadow upon a darker background, but it gave me
the
profoundest Ike Walton thrill I ever experienced. I had been a fisher
from my
earliest boyhood. I came from a race of fishers; trout streams gurgled
about
the roots of the family tree, and there was a long accumulated and
transmitted
tendency and desire in me that that sight gratified. I did not wish the
pole in
my own hands; there was quite enough electricity overflowing from it
and
filling the air for me. The fish yielded more and more to the
relentless pole,
till, in about fifteen minutes from the time he was struck, he came to
the
surface, then made a little whirlpool where he disappeared again. But presently he was up a
second time, and lashing the water into foam as the angler led him
toward the
rock upon which I was perched net in hand. As I reached toward him,
down he
went again, and, taking another circle of the pool, came up still more
exhausted, when, between his paroxysms, I carefully ran the net over
him and
lifted him ashore, amid, it is needless to say, the wildest enthusiasm
of the
spectators. The congratulatory laughter of the loons down on the lake
showed
how even the outsiders sympathized. Much larger trout have been taken
in these
waters and in others, but this fish would have swallowed any three we
had ever
before caught. "What does he
weigh?" was the natural inquiry of each; and we took turns
"hefting" him. But gravity was less potent to us just then than
usual, and the fish seemed astonishingly light. "Four pounds," we
said; but Joe said more. So we improvised a scale: a long strip of
board was
balanced across a stick, and our groceries served as weights. A
four-pound
package of sugar kicked the beam quickly; a pound of coffee was added;
still it
went up; then a pound of tea, and still the fish had a little the best
of it.
But we called it six pounds, not to drive too sharp a bargain with
fortune, and
were more than satisfied. Such a beautiful creature! marked in every
respect
like a trout of six inches. We feasted our eyes upon him for half an
hour. We
stretched him upon the ground and admired him; we laid him across a log
and
withdrew a few paces and admired him; we hung him against the shanty,
and
turned our heads from side to side as women do when they are selecting
dress
goods, the better to take in the full force of the effect. He graced the board or stump
that afternoon, and was the sweetest fish we had taken. The flesh was a
deep
salmon-color and very rich. We had before discovered that there were
two
varieties of "trout in these waters, irrespective of size, —
the
red-fleshed and the white-fleshed, — and that the former were
the
better. This success gave an impetus
to our sport that carried us through the rest of the week finely. We
had demonstrated
that there were big trout here, and that they would rise to a fly.
Henceforth
big fish were looked to as a possible result of every excursion. To me,
especially, the desire at least to match my companion, who had been my
pupil in
the art, was keen and constant. We built a raft of logs and upon it I
floated
out upon the lake, whipping its waters right and left, morning, noon,
and
night. Many fine trout came to my hand, and were released because they
did not
fill the bill. The lake became my favorite
resort, while my companion preferred rather the shore or the long still
pool
above, where there was a rude makeshift of a boat, made of common
box-boards. Upon the lake you had the
wildness and solitude at arm's length, and could better take their look
and
measure. You became something apart from them; you emerged and had a
vantage-ground like that of a mountain peak, and could contemplate them
at your
ease. Seated upon my raft and slowly carried by the current or drifted
by the
breeze, I had many a long, silent look into the face of the wilderness,
and
found the communion good. I was alone with the spirit of the
forest-bound
lakes, and felt its presence and magnetism. I played hide-and-seek with
it
about the nooks and corners, and lay in wait for it upon a little
island
crowned with a clump of trees that was moored just to one side of the
current
near the head of the lake. Indeed, there is no depth of
solitude that the mind does not endow with some human interest. As in a
dead
silence the ear is filled with its own murmur, so amid these aboriginal
scenes
one's feelings and sympathies become external to him, as it were, and
he holds
converse with them. Then a lake is the ear as well as the eye of a
forest. It
is the place to go to listen and ascertain what sounds are abroad in
the air.
They all run quickly thither and report. If any creature had called in
the
forest for miles about, I should have heard it. At times I could hear
the
distant roar of water off beyond the outlet of the lake. The sound of
the
vagrant winds purring here and there in the tops of the spruces reached
my ear.
A breeze would come slowly down the mountain, then strike the lake, and
I could
see its footsteps approaching by the changed appearance of the water.
How
slowly the winds move at times, sauntering like one on a Sunday walk! A
breeze
always enlivens the fish; a dead calm and all pennants sink, your
activity with
your fly is ill-timed, and you soon take the hint and stop. Becalmed
upon my
raft, I observed, as I have often done before, that the life of Nature
ebbs and
flows, comes and departs, in these wilderness scenes; one moment her
stage is
thronged and the next quite deserted. Then there is a wonderful unity
of
movement in the two elements, air and water. When there is much going
on in
one, there is quite sure to be much going on in the other. You have
been
casting, perhaps, for an hour with scarcely a jump or any sign of life
anywhere
about you, when presently the breeze freshens and the trout begin to
respond,
and then of a sudden all the performers rush in: ducks come sweeping
by; loons
laugh and wheel overhead, then approach the water on a long, gentle
incline,
plowing deeper and deeper into its surface, until their momentum is
arrested,
or converted into foam; the fish hawk screams; the bald eagle goes
flapping by,
and your eyes and hands are full. Then the tide ebbs, and both fish and
fowl
are gone. Patiently whipping the
waters of the lake from my rude float, I became an object of great
interest to
the loons. I had never seen these birds before in their proper habitat,
and the
interest was mutual. When they had paused on the Hudson during their
spring and
fall migrations, I had pursued them in my boat to try to get near them.
Now the
case was reversed; I was the interloper now, and they would come out
and study
me. Sometimes six or eight of them would be swimming about watching my
movements, but they were wary and made a wide circle. One day one of
their
number volunteered to make a thorough reconnoissance. I saw him leave
his
comrades and swim straight toward me. He came bringing first one eye to
bear
upon me, then the other. When about half the distance was passed over
he began
to waver and hesitate. To encourage him I stopped casting, and taking
off my
hat began to wave it slowly to and fro, as in the act of fanning
myself. This
started him again, — this was a new trait in the creature
that he
must
scrutinize more closely. On he came, till all his markings were
distinctly
seen. With one hand I pulled a little revolver from my hip pocket, and
when the
loon was about fifty yards distant, and had begun to sidle around me, I
fired:
at the flash I saw two webbed feet twinkle in the air, and the loon was
gone!
Lead could not have gone down so quickly. The bullet cut across the
circles
where he disappeared. In a few moments he reappeared a couple of
hundred yards
away. "Ha-ha-ha-a-a," said he, "ha-ha-ha-a-a," and
"ha-ha-ha-a-a," said his comrades, who had been looking on; and
"ha-ha-ha-a-a," said we all, echo included. He approached a second
time, but not so closely, and when I began to creep back toward the
shore with
my heavy craft, pawing the water first upon one side, then the other,
he
followed, and with ironical laughter witnessed my efforts to stem the
current
at the head of the lake. I confess it was enough to make a more solemn
bird
than the loon laugh, but it was no fun for me, and generally required
my last
pound of steam. The loons flew back and
forth from one lake to the other, and their voices were about the only
notable
wild sounds to be heard. One afternoon, quite
unexpectedly, I struck my big fish in the head of the lake. I was first
advised
of his approach by two or three trout jumping clear from the water to
get out
of his lordship's way. The water was not deep just there, and he swam
so near
the surface that his enormous back cut through. With a swirl he swept
my fly
under and turned. My hook was too near home,
and my rod too near a perpendicular to strike well. More than that, my
presence
of mind came near being unhorsed by the sudden apparition of the fish.
If I
could have had a moment's notice, or if I had not seen the monster, I
should
have fared better and the fish worse. I struck, but not with enough
decision,
and, before I could reel up, my empty hook came back. The trout had
carried it
in his jaws till the fraud was detected, and then spat it out. He came
a second
time and made a grand commotion in the water, but not in my nerves, for
I was
ready then, but failed to take the fly, and so to get his weight and
beauty in
these pages. As my luck failed me at the last, I will place my loss at
the full
extent of the law, and claim that nothing less than a ten-pounder was
spirited
away from my hand that day. I might not have saved him, netless as I
was upon
my cumbrous raft; but I should at least have had the glory of the
fight, and
the consolation of the fairly vanquished. These trout are not properly
lake trout, but the common brook trout. The largest ones are taken with
live
bait through the ice in winter. The Indians and the habitans
bring them
out of the woods from here and from Snow Lake, on their toboggans, from
two and
a half to three feet long. They have kinks and ways of their own. About
half a
mile above camp we discovered a deep oval bay to one side of the main
current
of the river, that evidently abounded in big fish. Here they disported
themselves. It was a favorite feeding-ground, and late every afternoon
the fish
rose all about it, making those big ripples the angler delights to see.
A
trout, when he comes to the surface, starts a ring about his own length
in
diameter; most of the rings in the pool, when the eye caught them, were
like
barrel hoops, but the haughty trout ignored all our best efforts; not
one rise
did we get. We were told of this pool on our return to Quebec, and that
other
anglers had a similar experience there. But occasionally some old
fisherman,
like a great advocate who loves a difficult case, would set his wits to
work
and bring into camp an enormous trout taken there. I had been told in Quebec
that I would not see a bird in the woods, not a feather of any kind.
But I knew
I should, though they were not numerous. I saw and heard a bird nearly
every
day, on the tops of the trees about, that I think was one of the
crossbills.
The kingfisher was there ahead of us with his loud clicking reel. The
osprey
was there, too, and I saw him abusing the bald eagle, who had probably
just
robbed him of a fish. The yellow-rumped warbler I saw, and one of the
kinglets
was leading its lisping brood about through the spruces. In every
opening the
white-throated sparrow abounded, striking up his clear sweet whistle,
at times
so loud and sudden that one's momentary impression was that some farm
boy was
approaching, or was secreted there behind the logs. Many times, amid
those
primitive solitudes, I was quite startled by the human tone and quality
of this
whistle. It is little more than a beginning; the bird never seems to
finish the
strain suggested. The Canada jay was there also, very busy about some
important
private matter. One lowery morning, as I was
standing in camp, I saw a lot of ducks borne swiftly down by the
current around
the bend in the river a few rods above. They saw me at the same instant
and
turned toward the shore. On hastening up there, I found the old bird
rapidly
leading her nearly grown brood through the woods, as if to go around
our camp.
As I pursued them they ran squawking with outstretched stubby wings,
scattering
right and left, and seeking a hiding-place under the logs and
débris. I
captured one and carried it into camp. It was just what Joe wanted; it
would
make a valuable decoy. So he kept it in a box, fed it upon oats, and
took it
out of the woods with him. We found the camp we had
appropriated was a favorite stopping-place of the carmen who hauled in
supplies
for the gang of two hundred road-builders. One rainy day near nightfall
no less
than eight carts drew up at the old stable, and the rain-soaked
drivers, after
picketing and feeding their horses, came down to our fire. We were
away, and
Joe met us on our return with the unwelcome news. We kept open house so
far as
the fire was concerned; but our roof was a narrow one at the best, and
one or
two leaky spots made it still narrower. "We shall probably
sleep out-of-doors to-night," said my companion, "unless we are a
match for this posse of rough teamsters." But the men proved to be
much more peaceably disposed than the same class at home; they
apologized for
intruding, pleading the inclemency of the weather, and were quite
willing, with
our permission, to take up with pot-luck about the fire and leave us
the
shanty. They dried their clothes upon poles and logs, and had their fun
and
their bantering amid it all. An Irishman among them did about the only
growling; he invited himself into our quarters, and before morning had
Joe's
blanket about him in addition to his own. On Friday we made an
excursion to Great Lake Jacques Cartier, paddling and poling up the
river in
the rude box-boat. It was a bright, still morning after the rain, and
everything had a new, fresh appearance. Expectation was ever on tiptoe
as each
turn in the river opened a new prospect before us. How wild, and
shaggy, and
silent it was! What fascinating pools, what tempting stretches of
trout-haunted
water! Now and then we would catch a glimpse of long black shadows
starting
away from the boat and shooting through the sunlit depths. But no sound
or
motion on shore was heard or seen. Near the lake we came to a long,
shallow
rapid, when we pulled off our shoes and stockings, and, with our
trousers
rolled above our knees, towed the boat up it, wincing and cringing amid
the
sharp, slippery stones. With benumbed feet and legs we reached the
still water
that forms the stem of the lake, and presently saw the arms of the
wilderness
open and the long deep blue expanse in their embrace. We rested and
bathed, and
gladdened our eyes with the singularly beautiful prospect. The shadows
of
summer clouds were slowly creeping up and down the sides of the
mountains that
hemmed it in. On the far eastern shore, near the head, banks of what
was
doubtless white sand shone dimly in the sun, and the illusion that
there was a
town nestled there haunted my mind constantly. It was like a section of
the
Hudson below the Highlands, except that these waters were bluer and
colder, and
these shores darker, than even those Sir Hendrik first looked upon; but
surely,
one felt, a steamer will round that point presently, or a sail drift
into view!
We paddled a mile or more up the east shore, then across to the west,
and found
such pleasure in simply gazing upon the scene that our rods were quite
neglected. We did some casting after a while, but raised no fish of any
consequence till we were in the outlet again, when they responded so
freely
that the "disgust of trout" was soon upon us. At the rapids, on our
return, as I was standing to my knees in the swift, cold current, and
casting
into a deep hole behind a huge boulder that rose four or five feet
above the
water amidstream, two trout, one of them a large one, took my flies,
and,
finding the fish and the current united too strong for my tackle, I
sought to
gain the top of the boulder, in which attempt I got wet to my middle
and lost
my fish. After I had gained the rock, I could not get away again with
my
clothes on without swimming, which, to say nothing of wet garments the
rest of
the way home, I did not like to do amid those rocks and swift currents;
so,
after a vain attempt to communicate with my companion above the roar of
the
water, I removed my clothing, left it together with my tackle upon the
rock,
and by a strong effort stemmed the current and reached the shore. The
boat was
a hundred yards above, and when I arrived there my teeth were
chattering with
the cold, my feet were numb with bruises, and the black flies were
making the
blood stream down my back. We hastened back with the boat, and, by
wading out
into the current again and holding it by a long rope, it swung around
with my
companion aboard, and was held in the eddy behind the rock. I clambered
up, got
my clothes on, and we were soon shooting downstream toward home; but
the winter
of discontent that shrouded one half of me made sad inroads upon the
placid
feeling of a day well spent that enveloped the other, all the way to
camp. That night something carried
off all our fish, — doubtless a fisher or lynx, as Joe had
seen
an animal of
some kind about camp that day. I must not forget the two
red squirrels that frequented the camp during our stay, and that were
so tame
they would approach within a few feet of us and take the pieces of
bread or
fish tossed to them. When a particularly fine piece of hard-tack was
secured,
they would spin off to their den with it somewhere near by. Caribou abound in these
woods, but we saw only their tracks; and of bears, which are said to be
plentiful, we saw no signs. Saturday morning we packed
up our traps and started on our return, and found that the other side
of the
spruce-trees and the vista of the lonely road going south were about
the same
as coming north. But we understood the road better and the buck-board
better,
and our load was lighter, hence the distance was more easily
accomplished. I saw a solitary robin by
the roadside, and wondered what could have brought this social and
half-domesticated bird so far into these wilds. In La Grande
Brûlure, a hermit
thrush perched upon a dry tree in a swampy place and sang most
divinely. We
paused to listen to his clear, silvery strain poured out without stint
upon
that unlistening solitude. I was half persuaded I had heard him before
on first
entering the woods. We nooned again at No Man's
Inn on the banks of a trout lake, and fared well and had no reckoning
to pay.
Late in the afternoon we saw a lonely pedestrian laboring up a hill far
ahead
of us. When he heard us coming he leaned his back against the bank, and
was
lighting his pipe as we passed. He was an old man, an Irishman, and
looked
tired. He had come from the farther end of the road, fifty miles
distant, and
had thirty yet before him to reach town. He looked the dismay he
evidently felt
when, in answer to his inquiry, we told him it was yet ten miles to the
first
house, La Chance's. But there was a roof nearer than that, where he
doubtless
passed the night, for he did not claim hospitality at the cabin of La
Chance.
We arrived there betimes, but found the "spare bed" assigned to other
guests; so we were comfortably lodged upon the haymow. One of the boys
lighted
us up with a candle and made level places for us upon the hay. La Chance was one of the
game wardens, or constables appointed by the government to see the game
laws
enforced. Joe had not felt entirely at his ease about the duck he was
surreptitiously taking to town, and when, by its "quack, quack," it
called upon La Chance for protection, he responded at once. Joe was
obliged to
liberate it then and there, and to hear the law read and expounded, and
be
threatened till he turned pale beside. It was evident that they follow
the home
government in the absurd practice of enforcing their laws in Canada. La
Chance
said he was under oath not to wink at or permit any violation of the
law, and
seemed to think that made a difference. We were off early in the
morning, and before we had gone two miles met a party from Quebec who
— must
have been driving nearly all night to give the black flies an early
breakfast.
Before long a slow rain set in; we saw another party who had taken
refuge in a
house in a grove. When the rain had become so brisk that we began to
think of
seeking shelter ourselves, we passed a party of young men and boys
— sixteen of
them — in a cart turning back to town, water-soaked and heavy
(for the poor
horse had all it could pull), but merry and good-natured. We paused
awhile at
the farmhouse where we had got our hay on going out, were treated to a
drink of
milk and some wild red cherries, and when the rain slackened drove on,
and by
ten o'clock saw the city eight miles distant, with the sun shining upon
its
steep tinned roofs. The next morning we set out
by steamer for the Saguenay, and entered upon the second phase of our
travels,
but with less relish than we could have wished. Scenery hunting is the
least
satisfying pursuit I have ever engaged in. What one sees in his
necessary
travels, or doing his work, or going a-fishing, seems worth while, but
the
famous view you go out in cold blood to admire is quite apt to elude
you.
Nature loves to enter a door another hand has opened; a mountain view,
or a
waterfall, I have noticed, never looks better than when one has just
been
warmed up by the capture of a big trout. If we had been bound for some
salmon
stream up the Saguenay, we should perhaps have possessed that generous
and
receptive frame of mind-that open house of the heart — which
makes one
"eligible to any good fortune," and the grand scenery would have come
in as fit sauce to the salmon. An adventure, a bit of experience of
some kind,
is what one wants when he goes forth to admire woods and waters,
— something to
create a draught and make the embers of thought and feeling brighten.
Nature,
like certain wary game, is best taken by seeming to pass by her intent
on other
matters. But without any such errand,
or occupation, or indirection, we managed to extract considerable
satisfaction
from the view of the lower St. Lawrence and the Saguenay. We had not paid the
customary visit to the falls of the Montmorenci, but we shall see them
after
all, for before we are a league from Quebec they come into view on the
left. A
dark glen or chasm there at the end of the Beauport Slopes seems
suddenly to
have put on a long white apron. By intently gazing, one can see the
motion and
falling of the water, though it is six or seven miles away. There is no
sign of
the river above or below but this trembling white curtain of foam and
spray. It was very sultry when we
left Quebec, but about noon we struck much clearer and cooler air, and
soon
after ran into an immense wave or puff of fog that came drifting up the
river
and set all the fog-guns booming along shore. We were soon through it
into
clear, crisp space, with room enough for any eye to range in. On the
south the
shores of the great river appear low and uninteresting, but on the
north they
are bold and striking enough to make it up, — high, scarred,
unpeopled mountain
ranges the whole way. The points of interest to the eye in the broad
expanse of
water were the white porpoises that kept rolling, rolling in the
distance, all
day. They came up like the perimeter of a great wheel that turns slowly
and
then disappears. From mid-forenoon we could see far ahead an immense
column of
yellow smoke rising up and flattening out upon the sky and stretching
away
beyond the horizon. Its form was that of some aquatic plant that shoots
a stem
up through the water, and spreads its broad leaf upon the surface. This
smoky
lily-pad must have reached nearly to Maine. It proved to be in the
Indian
country in the mountains beyond the mouth of the Saguenay, and must
have
represented an immense destruction of forest timber. The steamer is two hours
crossing the St. Lawrence from Rivière du Loup to Tadousac.
The
Saguenay pushes
a broad sweep of dark blue water down into its mightier brother that is
sharply
defined from the deck of the steamer. The two rivers seem to touch, but
not to
blend, so proud and haughty is this chieftain from the north. On the
mountains
above Tadousac one could see banks of sand left by the ancient seas.
Naked rock
and sterile sand are all the Tadousacker has to make his garden of, so
far as I
observed. Indeed, there is no soil along the Saguenay until you get to
Ha-ha
Bay, and then there is not much, and poor quality at that. What the ancient fires did
not burn the ancient seas have washed away. I overheard an English
resident say
to a Yankee tourist, "You will think you are approaching the end of the
world up here." It certainly did suggest something apocryphal or
antemundane, — a segment of the moon or of a cleft asteroid,
matter dead or
wrecked. The world-builders must have had their foundry up in this
neighborhood, and the bed of this river was doubtless the channel
through which
the molten granite flowed. Some mischief-loving god has let in the sea
while
things were yet red-hot, and there has been a time here. But the
channel still
seems filled with water from the mid-Atlantic, cold and blue-black, and
in
places between seven and eight thousand feet deep (one and a half
miles). In
fact, the enormous depth of the Saguenay is one of the wonders of
physical
geography. It is as great a marvel in its way as Niagara. The ascent of the river is
made by night, and the traveler finds himself in Ha-ha Bay in the
morning. The
steamer lies here several hours before starting on her return trip, and
takes
in large quantities of white birch wood, as she does also at Tadousac.
The
chief product of the country seemed to be huckleberries, of which large
quantities are shipped to Quebec in rude board boxes holding about a
peck each.
Little girls came aboard or lingered about the landing with cornucopias
of
birch-bark filled with red raspberries; five cents for about half a
pint was the
usual price. The village of St. Alphonse, where the steamer tarries, is
a
cluster of small, humble dwellings dominated, like all Canadian
villages, by an
immense church. Usually the church will hold all the houses in the
village;
pile them all up and they would hardly equal it in size; it is the one
conspicuous object, and is seen afar; and on the various lines of
travel one
sees many more priests than laymen. They appear to be about the only
class that
stir about and have a good time. Many of the houses were covered with
birch-bark, — the canoe birch, — held to its place
by
perpendicular strips of
board or split poles. A man with a horse and a
buckboard persuaded us to give him twenty-five cents each to take us
two miles
up the St. Alphonse River to see the salmon jump. There is a high
saw-mill dam
there which every salmon in his upward journey tries his hand at
leaping. A
raceway has been constructed around the dam for their benefit, which it
seems
they do not use till they have repeatedly tried to scale the dam. The
day
before our visit three dead fish were found in the pool below, killed
by too
much jumping. Those we saw had the jump about all taken out of them;
several
did not get more than half their length out of the water, and
occasionally only
an impotent nose would protrude from the foam. One fish made a leap of
three or
four feet and landed on an apron of the dam and tumbled helplessly
back; he
shot up like a bird and rolled back like a clod. This was the only view
of
salmon, the buck of the rivers, we had on our journey. It was a bright and flawless
midsummer day that we sailed down the Saguenay, and nothing was wanting
but a
good excuse for being there. The river was as lonely as the St. John's
road;
not a sail or a smokestack the whole sixty-five miles. The scenery
culminates
at Cape Trinity, where the rocks rise sheer from the water to a height
of
eighteen hundred feet. This view dwarfed anything I had ever before
seen. There
is perhaps nothing this side the Yosemite chasm that equals it, and,
emptied of
its water, this chasm would far surpass that famous cañon,
as
the river here is
a mile and a quarter deep. The bald eagle nests in the niches in the
precipice
secure from any intrusion. Immense blocks of the rock had fallen out,
leaving
areas of shadow and clinging overhanging masses that were a terror and
fascination to the eye. There was a great fall a few years ago, just as
the
steamer had passed from under and blown her whistle to awake the
echoes. The
echo came back, and with it a part of the mountain that astonished more
than it
delighted the lookers-on. The pilot took us close around the base of
the
precipice that we might fully inspect it. And here my eyes played me a
trick
the like of which they had never done before. One of the boys of the
steamer
brought to the forward deck his hands full of stones, that the curious
ones
among the passengers might try how easy it was to throw one ashore.
"Any
girl ought to do it," I said to myself, after a man had tried and had
failed to clear half the distance. Seizing a stone, I cast it with
vigor and
confidence, and as much expected to see it smite the rock as I expected
to
live. "It is a good while getting there," I mused, as I watched its
course: down, down it went; there, it will ring upon the granite in
half a
breath; no, down — into the water, a little more than
halfway!
"Has my arm
lost its cunning?" I said, and tried again and again, but with like
result. The eye was completely at fault. There was a new standard of
size
before it to which it failed to adjust itself. The rock is so enormous
and
towers so above you that you get the impression it is much nearer than
it
actually is. When the eye is full it says, "Here we are," and the
hand is ready to prove the fact; but in this case there is an
astonishing
discrepancy between what the eye reports and what the hand finds out. Cape Eternity, the wife of
this colossus, stands across a chasm through which flows a small
tributary of
the Saguenay, and is a head or two shorter, as becomes a wife, and less
rugged
and broken in outline. From Rivière du
Loup, where
we passed the night and ate our first "Tommy-cods," our thread of
travel makes a big loop around New Brunswick to St. John, thence out
and down
through Maine to Boston, — a thread upon which many
delightful
excursions and
reminiscences might be strung. We traversed the whole of the valley of
the
Metapedia, and passed the doors of many famous salmon streams and
rivers, and
heard everywhere the talk they inspire; one could not take a nap in the
car for
the excitement of the big fish stories he was obliged to overhear. The Metapedia is a most
enticing-looking stream; its waters are as colorless as melted snow; I
could
easily have seen the salmon in it as we shot along, if they had come
out from
their hiding-places. It was the first white-water stream we had seen
since
leaving the Catskills; for all the Canadian streams are black or brown,
either
from the iron in the soil or from the leechings of the spruce swamps.
But in
New Brunswick we saw only these clear, silver-shod streams; I imagined
they had
a different ring or tone also. The Metapedia is deficient in good pools
in its
lower portions; its limpid waters flowing with a tranquil murmur over
its wide,
evenly paved bed for miles at a stretch. The salmon pass over these
shallows by
night and rest in the pools by day. The Restigouche, which it joins,
and which
is a famous salmon stream and the father of famous salmon streams, is
of the
same complexion and a delight to look upon. There is a noted pool where
the two
join, and one can sit upon the railroad. bridge and count the noble
fish in the
lucid depths below. The valley here is fertile, and has a cultivated,
well-kept
look. We passed the Jacquet, the
Belledune, the Nepissisquit, the Miramichi ("happy retreat") in the
night, and have only their bird-call names to report. _______________
1 Written in 1877 |