back, fastens the fish so divided in the fork of the split stick, and superintends the dressing, while V. and I arrange a tripod, and hang thereupon a big black kettle, with our tea in it, to boil (the luxury of tea-pots is unknown in the bush). Our supper to-night, with our tea in tin mugs, bread, some butter from Jack’s, and the trout, is by no means to be despised. I am sure no one can appreciate trout properly who has not eaten them, cooked bush fashion, just after he has himself caught them. After supper comes the “calumet of peace,” half an hour’s talk, and then to bed, rolling ourselves up, just as we are, in our wrappers, and lying down on our spruce branches—feet to the blaze—with the lullaby of the stream and the fire, we soon drop off into sound sleep. Whoever wakes up in the night throws a log or two on the fire, but I am bound to say that Jack took more than his fair share of fire-replenishing, or we should never have found it, as we did, blazing at four the next morning. Soon after four o’clock we unwind ourselves from our wrappers, Jack takes the greater part of our “heavy baggage” and proceeds to a place about a mile down the stream, where he is to get our breakfast ready, while we fish down till we meet him, which we do accordingly in about an hour and a-half. Proceedings are much like yesterday’s, we fish, eat, rest, and smoke after the same fashion; we don’t catch any salmon, and when we find ourselves at the debouching point of the stream into the lake I mentioned before, being the place where we are to camp to-night, our number of trout for the day turns out to be almost twelve dozen. Of course we have not brought half of them with us, but we have marked down the number in pencil at each point we stopped at. Close to the lake we fixed our camp to-night. Out sparkle the fire-flies, appearing one by one like the stars, and the broad surface of the lake fades away into darkness. We “turn in” about ten o’clock, with much the same shelter as last night. After I have been asleep some time I am roused—something falls on me; it must be a twig from the tree; I turn round, take an extra fold in my wrapper; again and again something falls. I open my eyes and see Jack crawling to put a log on the fire.
“What is the night like, Jack?”
“Don’t you feel the rain, sir?” says Jack.
“Indeed I do,” by this time, as the drops which came through our slender roof begin to hiss on the burning wood. Well, there is no help for it, for Jack says, “it is only midnight,” and we must have our sleep. So down goes my head again,—the hissing becomes more constant. I just recollect a slightly damp feeling about the legs, a distinct dream that I am at Chiswick, and have had to take refuge from a shower in a tent which is not large enough to hold me, and nothing more do I remember till I woke at three o’clock—rain still pouring, and everything belonging to me drenched.
Jack and I get up. I shake V., whose sleep having been of the profoundest, it is excessively amusing to see him awaking at the same time to consciousness and a drenching. No more fishing this morning, though we were to have coasted along the lake before going back to Jack’s, and starting for civilised life again. With a crust of damp bread, by way of breakfast, we pack up our traps and our fish and start for a four mile tramp through the bush to Jack’s. Those who have tried, as well as those who have not, a walk under the same circumstances, will easily believe that walking through thick, wet, bush, with from sixty to seventy pounds avoirdupois hanging to one’s back, as well as at least half that weight of drenched clothes clinging to one’s limbs, is not altogether pleasant. However, in due time we come to Jack’s, sit wrapped up in all the available blankets of the establishment till our clothes have finished pouring out their clouds of vapour before the fire, and do full justice, blankets and all, to one of “Mrs. Jack’s” best breakfasts. This done, we start for “home,” providently securing the assistance of Jack and his eldest son, till we have crossed our enemy, the venerable trunk prostrate across the road. We leave Jack, having bestowed on him the not very extravagant sum of ten dollars, as full, and more than full, discharge of all demands, as well as more fish than they want, and arrive at the door we started from some sixty hours before, having succeeded by this time in getting drenched again. We bring with us a large stock of that glorious fresh feeling which ever so slight a taste of bush-life gives, and some wonder why so few fishing men in England find their way to the splendid rivers and lakes of North America, and fish enough to live on for weeks (if they would but keep) for the especial gratification of those of our friends who care for such luxuries as trout.
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