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hour passed by. Finally he swam to the surface and was easily gaffed, a seven-pound mascalonge. The secret was out as he lay gasping in the boat-he was hooked from the outside, so with closed mouth, swimming as fast as a lunge can swim, he was almost the victor and not the vanquished.

Right here let me say that one of the greatest charms of fishing in Sparrow Lake is that it often happens that when a fish strikes you do not know whether it is a lunge, pickerel or bass. I recall a vivid instance of the truth of that statement. A close friend of mine, Mr. Charles A. Neidhart, of Pittsburgh (a very skillful angler, by the way), who, accompanied by his wife,

way, for Mr. Neidhart caught lunge of large size while he was there. One day we were all down in McLean Bay. Mr. and Mrs. Neidhart and Tony were in one boat, my wife and I in the other. A little tug at Mrs. Neidhart's line. "Something doing; only a pick, I guess," she called, but out for deep water rowed Tony. This time it was a lunge and a big one. The reel came off, but Mrs. Neidhart cleverly put it on again while she handled the fish. Close he came to the boat, and with a small gaff hook Charles gaffed him in. The fish weighed twelve pounds and was 34 inches in length from the tip of nose to crotch of tail-the way they have of measuring in Canada. We

were enjoying that fun all the time, keeping our boat abreast of theirs, and were glad as they of the well-won victory. Truly, it is a victory to capture a mascalonge of size, as all lunge fishermen know. Sometimes the fish come rapidly toward the boat without resistance, but one quick glance at the boat and occupants is enough, and out of the water they leap, two or three feet in the air, it may be, shaking the hooks with rage of desperation, or down deep they plunge, sailing away for Georgian Bay, if only fate gives them the advantage. It was pleasure to behold the capture of one of these big fellows in Deep Bay. For two hundred yards he towed an Indian guide and white man in their canoe, but the strong cotton hand line would not break, and the Indian, with his red cedar club, upon which were engraved the mystic symbols of his Chippewa tribe, finally clubbed the fish insensible as he lay struggling on the surface of the water. This beautiful fish was fortytwo inches in length and weighed twentytwo pounds.

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And now I approach an amusing experience in which the chief actor of the little drama was Tony. Tony Miller, of whom I have spoken before, kept the little cottages down in a grove on the prettiest point of the lake. With Mrs. Miller, Tony furnished the nicest meals and most comfortable accommodations. He also was a first-class guide and a hail-fellow-well-met, carrying with him the cordial, genial hospitality of the typical Canadian. But, to return to the one-act drama unwritten and unexpected, but no less of thrilling interest while it lasted. My wife had just lost a big fish, whose tail was actually ten inches in width to the vision of us all in the boat (I will not retract an inch); she, Tony and I were lamenting the loss when another lunge took hold of her minnow. This time we intended to make no mistake. When the fish was reeled in Tony stood up; I stood up while my wife calmly pulled the fish around to the end of the boat. Tony made a stab at him with his gaff; the fish lunged; I lunged as the prong of Tony's gaff missed his majesty and came up within half an inch of my spinal column. Well, in the process of time, Tony gaffed the fish. He was thirty-three inches in length and weighed nine pounds.

But the fishing is only a part of the enjoyments of Sparrow Lake. It was not a fishing day, the wind was blowing hard from the east with that perversity of having its own way that is so rare in July. But the balmy air invites one into the open, now caressing with a dainty touch, now blowing a broken limb far to the west. Yet, the cottage door was open, near the friendly water, and the birds were singing merrily high in the pines that send their incense down. On the porch my wife was reading, with the house dog by her side. A sudden dry crackling in the "bush" attracted her attention. The dog barked once and slunk away afraid, as a large deer bounded close to the cottage and charged back into the woods, his curiosity about human kind having been satisfied, and his instinct for self-preservation aroused. Such is the charm about Sparrow Lake with the wild life reaching out for civilization with halfaccord.

We passed the cool evenings most delightfully this summer. Lighting camp fires on the rocks of drifted logs surmounted by dead branches and roots of trees, which nature has twisted into inconceivable shapes, we would linger on through the evening shadows and watch the sparkle and dance of the flames as they shot up into pure space. Over the tall pines across the lake the ducks would silently file, while the glowing streaks of a declining sun would touch the whole stretch of lake and shore. And then the "Admiral" would recite poetry from Byron to Kipling, and the 'Captain" would tell his wonderful stories of real life. The "Admiral" and the "Captain," by the way, were our friends, Mr. W. A. Chadwick and Mr. Slawson, from Sharon, Pa. Both gentlemen were adepts. with rod and reel, catching large strings of lunge, pickerel and bass in their two weeks' outing.

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I remarked before of the hospitality of the Canadian people. Though making the most of a summer season in a financial way, they are not exorbitant in their charges, nor are they loath to give you all their farms and houses afford. I recall that a pack peddler called at Tony's one day and asked for a dinner. He was not refused. No bargain was struck, but the peddler, leaving, in

sisted on settling for his meals. I am sure a peddler in this country would jump the barking dog and the fence before paying for what was freely offered him.

The Indians on Sparrow Lake are a picturesque tribe. They make and sell pretty baskets to tourists and act as guides for those who wish to go down the Severn River. As one passes by an island in the lake where their tents are pitched he notices the smallness of the white tents, the outside fire for cooking purposes, and the dark red bodies of the Indian children as they dive off the rocks into the sparkling water, like so many children of nature, that are as dear to her as the treasures hidden within her earth.

Across the lake from Miller's is Massey Camp, the summer home of Canadian Methodist ministers and their families. On the Sabbath they conduct services. It was our privilege to attend an impressive evening service there. Held out of doors, with the congregation facing the peaceful waters, overhead the blue heavens, inland the vesper song of a thrush, the service had a beauty and solemnity that inspired the feeling that the Father of all waters hallowed that scene. A few Christian Indians stalked slowly and reverentially to their places; with uplifted heads they sang with a wonderful pathos, in their native Chippewa tongue, the verses of our childhood's hymn, "Happy Day," and then they and the audience joined in singing the English words of the chorus. In considering a certain grandeur of such a scene, I am led to think of lines of Kipling's "Recessional":

God of our fathers, known of old,

Lord of our far-flung battle line, Beneath whose awful hand we hold, Dominion over palm and pine, Lord God of Hosts be with us yet,

Lest we forget, lest we forget.

But to return once more to the enjoyments of Sparrow Lake. The climate is so delightful, so bracingly cool at all times, and the opportunities so varied, that one can find out of doors what he or she desires. People spending their vacations there can bask in the glorious sunshine, or lie in hammocks, with book in hand, in shady groves, or bathe on many little sandy beaches, or go canoeing up and down the river; or go a-fishing with the certainty of good sport; or a-berrying in the "bush" with the surety of bringing home delicious blueberries, raspberries, blackberries and gooseberries, all wild but large and plentiful; or they can take trips on the two steamers, Captain Stanton's and Captain Wood's, down to the first "shoots," so called, and then make the portage in small boats and canoes and get an excellent day's fishing for black bassreturning by the large boats at night; or they can wander off into the interior on good roads searching for the flora and fauna of Canada; or with camera in hand they can take many scenic views of wild country and changing waters.

The twilight deepens, and the lights go out, and the train speeds away, but behind is the beautiful lake nestling among rockribbed shores, lulled to sleep by the softest airs, while ceaselessly, invitingly, the whippoor-will calls the traveler to return.

BY W. E. BRAMEL

F ALL the people, myriads of people, who cross the continent

I mean of all those who have crossed and who will cross the continent in order to see California and the Pacific Coast and the West in general-it is a great surprise

THE FALLS ON OAK CREEK

how few of those travelers know as large a

proportion of the West as they believe they do upon their return home. True, the wide expanse of desert and sage-brush in Southern Idaho, which requires one whole day to cross, gives one the impression

observing from the car window that nothing but starvation and poor success could attend any one's efforts in that part of the State, but true as this may all seem, and natural enough as this may be, I want to say right here that it is a conundrum to any one who knows this part of the State, why the railroad was put in such a desolate stretch of country. The probability is that it was built there because of the apparent evenness of the ground for the construction of the road-bed-where the wash from the mountains in the prehistoric ages reached the borders of the great snake river.

It is only fifty-seven miles north of this railroad that the little town of Hailey is located a town of 2,000 souls, situated on a branch line and amid immense mining and sheep industriessheep industries second to none in the Coast States. It is the stream upon which this little city is located that nature has amply supplied with those speckled beauties-the trout that our Government has termed the "cut-throat" trout. This stream is named Big Wood River and heads in the snowclad Saw Tooth range of mountains north of Hailey.

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After traveling twenty or thirty miles southward from the town, the abode of the writer, the water sinks in the sand and gravel to rise again further on down nearer the Snake River.

Legend says that several years ago a few brook trout were planted in the stream, and the legend is sustained by an occasional catch, but of course time has not been theirs enough to add the size that the cut-throat family furnishes.

I know whereof I speak when I relate the vast numbers of sixteen to twenty-one inch trout that are taken from this stream every season, and it is a matter of wonderment to me that they exist in such vast numbers to this day, with never a dollar expended to propagate them in their natural haunts.

It was this little town north of the desert that the world-famed Jay Gould finally found during the last three years of his life on this earth, and in answer to a friend who asked why he did not travel in a foreign country for his health and recreation he simply said, "This is good enough for me."

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It was one of the fine days in July-one of those fine. summer days that we experience on the Pacific Slope in an altitude of 5,300 feetthat a party of five-I counted myself as camped on the edge of the Big Wood River, twenty miles south of Hailey, and to say the big trout were taking the fly well was only to express the conditions mildly. Soon our baskets were full and we moved toward camp. We could stand or walk along the bank and see the big fellows in the . clear water. Of course they wouldn't bite when we were seen, but if we wanted to

have some fun, we would walk away from the river, and sneak up near a hole and look at the big fish basking in the shade. We would let a fly play out over and upon the water's surface "just to see a struggle," and it was this very time that I saw, hooked and finally landed with a bend in my split bamboo pole the largest speckled beauty that it has been my good fortune to take, although there have been larger ones caught this season.

Just to give the reader some idea of the

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OAK CREEK, ARIZONA

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