us to partake freely of that simple drink. And
he refused to take any pay for it, in a sort of surprise
that such a simple act of hospitality should have
any commercial value. But travelers themselves
destroy one of their chief pleasures. No doubt
we planted the notion in the McGregor mind that the
small kindnesses of life may be made profitable, by
offering to pay for the milk; and probably the next
travelers in that Eden will succeed in leaving some
small change there, if they use a little tact.
It was late in the season for trout. Perhaps
the McGregor was aware of that when he freely gave
us the run of the stream in his meadows, and pointed
out the pools where we should be sure of good luck.
It was a charming August day, just the day that trout
enjoy lying in cool, deep places, and moving their
fins in quiet content, indifferent to the skimming
fly or to the proffered sport of rod and reel.
The Middle River gracefully winds through this Vale
of Tempe, over a sandy bottom, sometimes sparkling
in shallows, and then gently reposing in the broad
bends of the grassy banks. It was in one of these
bends, where the stream swirled around in seductive
eddies, that we tried our skill. We heroically
waded the stream and threw our flies from the highest
bank; but neither in the black water nor in the sandy
shallows could any trout be coaxed to spring to the
deceitful leaders. We enjoyed the distinction
of being the only persons who had ever failed to strike
trout in that pool, and this was something. The
meadows were sweet with the newly cut grass, the wind
softly blew down the river, large white clouds sailed
high overhead and cast shadows on the changing water;
but to all these gentle influences the fish were insensible,
and sulked in their cool retreats. At length
in a small brook flowing into the Middle River we
found the trout more sociable; and it is lucky that
we did so, for I should with reluctance stain these
pages with a fiction; and yet the public would have
just reason to resent a fish-story without any fish
in it. Under a bank, in a pool crossed by a log
and shaded by a tree, we found a drove of the speckled
beauties at home, dozens of them a foot long, each
moving lazily a little, their black backs relieved
by their colored fins. They must have seen us,
but at first they showed no desire for a closer acquaintance.
To the red ibis and the white miller and the brown
hackle and the gray fly they were alike indifferent.
Perhaps the love for made flies is an artificial taste
and has to be cultivated. These at any rate were
uncivilized -trout, and it was only when we took the
advice of the young McGregor and baited our hooks
with the angleworm, that the fish joined in our day’s
sport. They could not resist the lively wiggle
of the worm before their very noses, and we lifted
them out one after an other, gently, and very much
as if we were hooking them out of a barrel, until
we had a handsome string. It may have been fun
for them but it was not much sport for us. All
the small ones the young McGregor contemptuously threw
back into the water. The sportsman will perhaps
learn from this incident that there are plenty of trout
in Cape Breton in August, but that the fishing is
not exhilarating.
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