“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.