“In early June, two years ago, my friend, Jack Rollings, of the Canada Geological Survey, was occupied in exploring parts of the Labrador coast, from the mouth of the Moisic River eastward. The following adventure, one of several that befell him in that wild region, has a peculiar interest from its possible connection with a throng of terrible legends, the scenes of which are laid along those shores.
“Ever since the Gulf of St. Lawrence became known to the fishing-fleets of Brittany and the Basque Provinces, its north-eastern coast has been peopled, by the vivid imaginations of the fishermen and sailors, with supernatural beings of various fashions, all agreeing, however, in the attributes of malignity and noisiness. Demons and griffins and monsters indescribable were supposed to haunt the bleak hills and dreadful ravines. Ships driven reluctantly inshore by stress of weather were wont to carry away strange tales of howlings and visions to freeze the marrow of the folks at home.
“The probable origin of those myths may be found in the fact that from time to time the coast has been ravaged by hordes of gigantic gray wolves, sweeping down from the unfathomed wilderness of the high interior plateau. One of these visitations was in 1873, when many of the coast dwellers, whose scanty settlements cling here and there in the lonely harbors, were torn to pieces on the shore, or shut up in their cabins till starvation stared them in the face. No great stretch of fancy is required to metamorphose a pack of ravening wolves into a yelling concourse of demons.
“What befell Jack Rollings I will tell in his own words.”
“Our schooner,” said Jack, “lay at anchor in a little landlocked bay where never a wind could get at her, and much of our exploration was done by means of short boat trips in one direction or the other. One morning Frank Jones and I made up our minds to take a day off, and try and kill a salmon or two.
“About five miles west of where we lay, there was a cove where, behind a low, rocky point, a little river came down out of the mountains. Half a mile above the head of tide the stream fell noisily over a shallow fall into a most enticing pool, and we calculated that we would be just in good time for the first run of the salmon.
“There was a stretch of shoals off the mouth of the stream, and no sheltered anchorage near; so we took the small boat for the trip, and a fresh breeze off the gulf blew us to our destination speedily. It was high tide when we arrived; and we hauled up the boat in the cove, under shelter of the point.
“Besides our rods, we had enough grub for a good lunch, and our top-coats in case it should blow up cold in the afternoon. Frank had brought his gun along, with a few cartridges loaded with number one and number two shot, in case he might want to shoot some big bird for his collection, which is already one of the best private collections in Ottawa.
“When we had put our rods together, we moved up along the wet edges of the beach, which glistened in the morning sun, and presently found ourselves at the basin where we expected our sport. Over the low, foaming barrier of the falls we saw a salmon make way in a flashing leap, and we knew we had struck both the right place and the right time.
“I need not tell you the particulars of the sport. You know what a Labrador salmon stream is when you happen to take it in a good humor. Enough to say, when we began to think of lunch it was about two o’clock; and we had six fish, ranging from ten to thirty-five pounds, lying in splendid array beneath a neighboring rock. As much of our spoils as we could carry at once we took down to the spot where the boat lay; and building a little fire of driftwood, we proceeded to fry some salmon collops for lunch.