“Which puts me in mind of another fish story, in which I and an old schoolmaster friend of mine are concerned,” said the Colonel, as Hiram concluded. “Out trouting once we suddenly met on our way to the brook a dog, which sneaked out from a patch of woods and began to follow in a close trot at our heels. We were taken somewhat by surprise at his appearance, because of the loneliness of the country, for there was no house within miles of us, and we were puzzled to think where he had come from. He looked the picture of starvation. His skin was literally hanging on him, and the body was so thin and sunken that we almost heard his ribs playing a bone chorus as he jogged behind us. We fed him with a portion of our lunch, which he devoured greedily. Finding himself favored, he followed us to the trouting ground. Spying out a beautiful quiet brook we sat down on the bank and cast our flies. The sport was instantaneous, and for a while continued and exciting, during which time the Professor had the good fortune to capture some half-dozen trout, which equalled in weight and beauty anything I had ever seen. When the luck was on the wane we reeled in our lines, and turned about to gather together our ‘catch,’ which during the sport we had thrown behind us on the grass. Suddenly the Professor gave a gasp. ‘Great heavens!’ he cried; ‘My half-dozen beauties! Where are they?’ We searched the bank, but they could not be found. ‘Is it possible that any one is prowling about these parts and has crept behind us and stolen them?’ he said. ‘I don’t think that likely,’ I replied. At the same time my attention was attracted to an object lying at the base of a tree. It was our dog—thin, starved and miserable-looking no longer, but swelled out as fat as a potato-bag, and wagging his tail, and smacking his jaws in heavenly transport. ‘Professor,’ said I; ‘look!’ ‘What! Another dog!’ gasped the Professor. ‘No, the same dog with variations,’ I said, ‘thanks to the expansive properties of trout, a little rosier in health.’ The Professor guessed the truth and gave a groan. He danced about like a lunatic and kicked the dog until it began to snap at his legs. Then with a heavy heart he packed his traps and we left the animal at the tree enjoying its siesta. ‘Fate could not harm him—he had dined that day.’”
Rare treats, these fish feasts. Rare tack, these fish stories. But, reader, beware of bones.
CHAPTER III.
“But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid it’s gay creation, hues like hers?”—Thomson.
IN ROUGH WATER.—NORTH TWIN STREAM.—AN INDIAN PADDLE FOR FUTURE USE.—BREEZES, BLANKETS, COLD AND ICE.—SPIDER LAKE.—MANIFOLD CHARMS OF CAMP LIFE.—AT WORK WITH THE TRAPS.—CONCERNING BEAVER.—WE PROCLAIM OUR INTENTIONS.
Early on the morning of September 23d we continued down Eagle Lake and through the “Thoroughfare” to Churchill Lake. Then a change came o’er the spirit of the weather. It grew suddenly colder, and as our three canoes prowed into the lake a sharp breeze sprang up which ruffled its usually calm surface into a restless quiver. As the breeze increased to a “blow” the waves were lashed into white caps, and then into billows, until our fragile birch-barks were tossed about like corks.