trout waters on our northern border. This was so long since that it is like sprinkling snow-flakes upon my frosted locks to think of it. My companions were James Cook, Alfred Clark and Duncan Pell. They have all crossed the dark river; but the recollection of their virtues and good fellowship remains as a pleasant memory. During that excursion I remember that Gen. Cook wagered Mr. Pell that a three-pound-and-a-quarter brook trout I had taken in the inlet could not be beaten. As Mr. Pell had just captured one which weighed five pounds and a quarter, of course the General lost the wager. Both fish, within twenty-four hours, were served up as the crowning dish of a sumptuous dinner given to a select party of friends by Hamilton Fish, then the chief executive of the State as he is now the honored head of the Washington cabinet. It is rare indeed that two such brook trout are ever taken from any of the rivers in our own State. They are common in the Rangely waters, but nowhere else within our own territory this side the Rocky Mountains.

And this "leader" has its history. I bought it in Montreal, years ago, when I found myself too late for a pleasure trip to the Saguenay for salmon. Falling in with an expert, he proposed that we should try the streams intersecting the railroad between Montreal and Portland. The suggestion was

an agreeable one, and we were soon pushing our way from Island Pond to a famous brook and lake some five miles distant. The day was intensely hot, and we despaired of success unless we should have the luck to strike a "spring-hole." This, after hours of seeking, we failed to find in the brook; and the lake (whose shores were composed of mud and quick-sand) gave no better promise. But as the sun-glare began to pass from the face of the water, trout were observed to "break" in a narrow circle a few rods distant. There was the "springhole" we were seeking. But how to reach it! A log-raft was speedily extemporised, and we had our reward. My "leader" was strung with five flies, and in six casts I killed eighteen trout, weighing nineteen pounds and a half. At one throw I took three which aggregated five pounds and a half. I preserve it as a memento of a happy day.

With this "brown hackle," without intermission, I killed one hundred and nine small trout in four hours in a pond near Racquette Falls. I handle it as gently as a relic, not alone because it is the memento of an unusual achievement, but because the sight of it brings up vividly before me the beautiful lake where the trout lay; its crystal waters; the glinting of its ruffled surface as the bright sun fell upon it; the densely-wooded hills which encircled it; the soughing of the tall pines as the sum

mer's breeze swept through their branches; the deer which, unconscious and unharmed, alternately disported himself upon the sand-beach and fed upon the water lilies whose snowy crests kept time to the music of the gentle waves which rolled up, like long belts of silver, upon the golden sands; and the thrill which coursed through every nerve as trout after trout leaped to the cast, and, after such manipulation and "play" as only those who have had personal experience can comprehend, were duly captured.

And here are discarded lines, unused gimp, broken snells, severed tips, sinkers, floats, trolling gangs, minnow lines, wires, pincers, feathers from duck, peacock and pigeon, wax, thread, loose hooks, spoons and whatever else goes to make up an ancient angler's “kit." They have each filled up the measure of their office, and deserve the repose which they have earned from long use and faithful service.

CHAPTER XIII.

BRIEF TRIBUTE TO A DEPARTED FRIEND.

To die is landing on some silent shore,
Where billows never break, nor tempests roar ;
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, t'is o'er.

Nor kings nor nations

-[Garth.

One moment can retard th' appointed hour.

-[Dryden.

The world's an inn, and death's the journey's end.

Since then our Arcite is with honor dead,
Why should we mourn that he so soon is freed?

year

-[Ibid

— [Ibid.

HE pleasurable emotions usually excited by needed work preparatory to our annual excursion, were chastened upon this occasion by the recollection that one of the four who made up our party last -the youngest, the most buoyant and the best belovedwill never again join us in our pleasant angling expeditions. Soon after his return home last summer, without premonition, "in the twinkling of an eye," he was called to pass the dark river. His sudden death,

from an organic malady which no care could avert, made a happy home desolate, and cast a shadow over many loving hearts. No one of us anticipated a return to the Cascapedia more confidently or with greater delight. But it was not to be. We shall miss him, for he was the life and inspiration of the camp, as he was the ever-welcome guest of every social circle. There only remains to us the recollection of his pleasant ways and joyous companionship.

After his return home, and a few days before his death, he gave expression to the memories he cherished of the Cascapedia in the following beautiful lines:

THE CHALEUR BAY-1874.

AFTER FATHER PROUT'S SHANDON BELLS.

With deep affection,
And recollection,

I often think of the Chaleur Bay;

Whose river wild, would,

In age or childhood,

Cast round men's fancies, its magic sway.

There memory drifting-
The past uplifting,

Brings well-remembered scenes of summer time;
The sportsman's pleasure,

Or grateful leisure,

On Cascapedia's pine-clad banks sublime.

I've seen the river,

That thundering ever,

Roars at Niagara its mighty tone,
But the bosom smiling,

All care beguiling,

Fair Cascapedia! 'tis all thy own.