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good sport, catching on each of those days ten fish; the twenty averaged 24 lb. H. S., who was with me, on the same two days caught nine and eleven, which he followed up by eight on the 16th, and the same number on the 18th of the month.

Of fish weighing 40 lb. and more we caught one in 1884, three in 1885, two in 1886, and one in 1887; but we had a large number of fish which approached, but did not reach, the 40-lb. standard. The season of 1884 yielded 36 fish, that of 1885, 54 fish, that of 1886, 65 fish, and that of 1887, 55 fish ever 30 lb.

If there were good days and brilliant successes, there were also disappointments and tragedies. The memory of some of these is indelibly impressed on my mind. I can still visualise the huge fish which I hooked in "Jack the Sailor," at the very beginning of my Cascapedia days, which, after running out the greater part of my line, leaped into the air and then parted company. If ever I saw a 50-pounder it was that fish. I remember another which played me for an interminable time in the thin water below the Ledge Pool. I could do nothing with him; he lay like a log in midstream and refused obstinately to come near us. At last we poled our way out to him and got quite close, but the hold parted at the last moment. The fish was so tired that Noel very nearly had him with the gaff after I had lost him.

But there is one tragedy in particular of which the details are unforgettable. One day in 1884 I was fishing at Lazybogan just below the camp. Towards dusk I got fast in what was evidently a very strong fish. I had noticed that fish hooked late in the evening always showed an uncontrollable desire to run violently down-stream. This fish was no exception to the rule. I hung hard on to him, but he took us down and ever down until we found ourselves at a point where the stream, which here flowed at a great pace, divided into several channels, separated by narrow spits of shingle. Across one of these channels a dead birch, brought down by the flood, had become fixed. My fish elected to rush down the birch-tree channel just as the men had committed the canoe to the next. Things looked bad, but this obstacle was overcome : canoe and fish both navigated their channels without mishap

the boughs of the birch-tree sloped down stream, and the line passed over them without getting caught. We met our fish again below the narrow island of shingle which had parted us, after which he renewed his headlong course. Finally, having found a resting-place to his liking, he went to ground in a deep hole from which I tried in vain to dislodge him: in spite of pressure applied from above and below his place of refuge, he was immovable. I tried to hand-line him up from the bottom, but it became olear that he had

literally taken root in the mass of brushwood and debris which lay half-buried at the bottom in the silt. We came to the conclusion that I was now fast, not in the fish but in the rubbish, and we set to work to get loose, and if possible, to save the line and cast. After probing the depths with his gaff, Barter (who was then my attendant) at last got hold of the right bough, and the line suddenly became slack. I proceeded to reel up with a sad heart, when suddenly to my amazement I felt a quiver of life, and realised that my fish was still there. The rough usage to which he had been subjected had taken all the vice out of him. He came in like a lamb, and I felt that I could tow him wherever I liked. There was a little backwater a few yards off, with a beautiful gravelly slope on one side-an ideal landing-place. I think I could have beached my fish unaided. I got out of the canoe and drew him gently and steadily into the shoal water. He was virtually mine. But at this moment Barter was seized by an access of dementia: it was the call of the wild, the instinot of the old salmon spearing blood. Before I could stop him he made a frantic lunge at the fish with his ten-foot gaff. That was the end; he missed the fish, and out my line in

Our long journey upstream, past the narrows which we had so successfully negotiated, was a melancholy affair. I never got a sight of the fish, and do not know how big he

I comforted myself with the reflection that he may have been foul-hooked and not so very large after all.

Here is the story of what might have been a tragedy, although the adventure had its comical side. H. A. was fishing the Limestone Pool; he hooked a good fish, and his bow man proceeded as usual to haul in the stone anchor. The rope broke, the anchor went to the bottom, and the man fell out of the canoe on the other side. The canoe upset, and H. A. and his two men found themselves struggling in the water. They could none of them swim, but were fortunately close to the bank, and succeeded in sorambling out. They were a long way from home, with a trackless jungle on either bank, and without the means of conveyance by water. They set out down-stream in search of the missing craft. Two or three hundred yards below there was a shingly bar running more than half-way acros8 the river. The swamped canoe had stranded upon this, and was soon righted and afloat again. One of the paddles was still on board, the other was found not far off. As the search proceeded, they came upon H. A.'s rod, which had also grounded on the shingle. H. A. proceeded to get in the line, and found to his joy that the fish was still attached to it. It was landed without difficulty, and the party paddled down to camp drenched to the skin, but triumphant. I must not omit the sequel of this story. story. H. A. had a few days

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before received a large and expensive consignment of salmonflies from a well-known tackle-shop in London. He had most unfortunately taken out with him a large round tin box, the magazine in which the whole of this valuable tackle was enshrined. The

tin box went overboard with other odds and ends, and was written off as lost. About a week afterwards a lad came up to our camp from a farm on one of the lower pools with a fine, though not quite complete, colleotion of salmon-flies, which had been found in the meshes of one of the stake-nets.

One more adventure. I have seen it said that "all fishermen are liars," and on the strength of the story that I am going to tell I shall perhaps qualify for enrolment in the fraternity. It all happened in "Jack the Sailor," which was, I think, upon the whole, my favourite pool. It was not too far from home; it always held fish, generally large fish; and it was extremely dangerous, which perhaps added to its attractions. At this point the river flows between low oliffs surmounted by a thick growth of trees. Ribs of jagged rook run out into its depths, and could be plainly seen at low water, twenty or thirty feet below the surface. Here and there great water-logged snags had become firmly lodged among them. The whole arrangement was a standing invitation to a hooked fish to out himself free. The wonder was, not that one lost fish, but that fish were ever landed

amid such a maze of entanglements. One fish out of "Jack the Sailor" was to my mind worth three caught in any other pool. I used often, when going down the river late in the evening, to stop for a couple of casts in "Jack," although I knew that another canoe must have been there not long before, and I more than once succeeded in stealing a fish out of it just as it was becoming dark.

Bitter experience had taught me that there was one way, and one way only, to avoid disaster. If you allowed your fish to explore the fastnesses of "Jack the Sailor" you would most certainly lose him, and probably your tackle also. The only chance was to prevent such exploration at any cost, to get him tight by the head, and to hang hard on to him, even at the risk of a break. With a stiff rod and sound tackle you can put a terrific strain on a firmly hooked salmon. I am, by the way, convinced that more fish are lost by over-tender handling than by more vigorous methods.

One day in 1885 I was applying my principles to a very stout fish, keeping him near the canoe in the clear water, and checking him whenever he tried to take soundings. After he had made one or two strong drives and been met with an equally strong application of the butt, he suddenly yielded to the pressure, shot up to the surface within two or three feet of us, threw himself high out of the water, and landed

almost in Noel's arms between the thwarts of the canoe. He would certainly have jumped overboard again had not Noel driven the gaff firmly into his side.

All this happened on a Saturday. On Sundays there used to be a great gathering of the boatmen at Woodman's Farm. On the following Monday I asked Noel whether he had said anything to his friends about our fish. He replied that he had told Mr

Woodman all about it. "What," I asked, "did Mr Woodman say?" "He said," replied Noel, "for me to come in and have a glass of whisky," and with this oracular utterance my story must end.

Many years after I had said good-bye to the Cascapedia, I

happened on 8 warm June evening to be passing through the back garden of a London house, in which half a dozen grimy trees were struggling into leaf amid a dingy and depressing environment. Suddenly something took me away from London and back to Canada and to the river. What was it? There was a reason. One of the trees was a poplar, a balsam poplar; there were the sticky buds and the aromatio and intoxioating scent. For a moment I seemed to see the old sights, to smell the old smells, to hear the old sounds - the rush of the rapids, the perfume of the forest, the clinking of the iron-shod poles, as the canoe forged its way upwards to the Middle Camp or to Lazybogan.

ESCAPE.

A TALE.

BY EDWARD LIVEING.

I WAS a subaltern in the Sappers at the time. I had not been in Palestine long before finding myself at a place called Es Salt during a raid into Turkish territory beyond the Jordan in the spring of 1918.

Es Salt was one of those "whited sepulchre " towns which you so often come across in Palestine-all glittering in the sun and spotlessly bright from a distance, and nothing but dirty streets covered with dung-heaps and inhabited by cunning-looking Bedouins and sprawling ours, and houses infested with insects, when you get into them.

Still, to give Es Salt its due, it was a little cleaner than the average run of "whited sepulchres," and it was remarkably pioturesquea kind of natural amphitheatre, in which the tiers of seats were houses built into and crannied out of a rooky hollow in the hills of Moab.

I had reached Es Salt three days before, and now towards evening on 1st April I found myself in the peculiar position of shepherding Armenian refugees, or the few stragglers of them remaining, out of the town. You see, the raid or

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its objectives had been attained, the whole British force was withdrawing to the Jordan Valley, taking these refugees with it, and the Turks were steadily closing in on Es Salt.

My job wasn't a pleasant one; I can tell you that much. These affairs in which one is left behind are never enjoyable. But a scanty knowledge of Arabic and a decent one of French had let me in for the task. So with the attitude of fatalism which helped one to face many a trouble in those days, but which I have since decided is an entirely false one, I set about my work.

All day the refugees had streamed out of the town along the zigzag mountain road that led into the gorge of the Shaib. A babel of weird shouting had arisen from relations and friends searching for each other before setting out together. Later in the day babel became more angry with echoing thunder of guns in the hills around the town and the ever-nearing rattle of machineguns. Towards afternoon a sandstorm descended on the town, blotting out the surrounding hills and leaving so

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