Part 10

On our way out we had noticed an attractive looking stream which we crossed some ten miles from Manitowaning. Just by the bridge over this stream stood the remains of an old mill, half fallen down and with the timbers of the dam furnishing ideal hiding places for trout. When this spot was reached on the return trip the pull was too strong to be resisted and, hitching the apology for a horse to a nearby fence, preparations were made for a foray upon the unsuspecting fish. Fly-casting was out of the question and, after choosing a new snood of double gut and covering the hook with an exceedingly plethoric angleworm, the bait was cautiously dropped into the rushing waters at the upper side of the ruins of the flume. Slowly the line was paid out and the lure allowed to go far down out of sight. Zip! Yank! Tug!--and it’s all over. Under the conditions, any such thing as playing the fish was out of the question, and the straight-away pull parted that new snood as if it had been made of a single strand of cotton thread. Our humiliation was complete, and with a thoroughly chastened spirit the horse was untied and the homeward journey resumed. That night as we told the champion fisherman of the village of the experience at the old mill, he poured a little balm upon our sore spirit by exclaiming, “That’s no trout, that’s a whale. There isn’t a fisherman within twenty-five miles of the old mill who has not hooked that fish and lost him.” Strange, isn’t it, how other men’s ill fortune takes some measure of the sting from our own?

But this is no tale of woe. On another day, and on the same stream that flows by the old mill, the elect-lady and her unworthy consort spent hours that are a joy to recall. It was only eleven miles to the point recommended by our friendly adviser, and the horse was reasonably ambitious. We had laid in a supply of provisions and took along a skillet. A perfect day and perfect comradeship, plenty to eat and the novelty of unexplored territory, made it certain that, fish or no fish, the hours would pass pleasantly. As so frequently happens when we are not very particular whether the fish bite or not, they elected to be friendly. The stream where we visited it ran through meadow and pasture-land, with a luxuriant growth of alders along its banks. The open spaces afforded opportunities for my lady to try her hand at trout fishing, and the other member of the party could wade the stream and test the more inaccessible places. The water was almost ice-cold, the stream having its rise less than a mile away in a great, bubbling spring. Owing to the colour of the water the stream is called the “Bluejay.”

When noon came, a fire was kindled in a secluded spot close by the running brook. Coffee! You never tasted any like it. Fried trout! Why are they never so appetizing as when cooked and eaten in the open? We lingered long over that dinner, and the writer would fain linger a little over that day even now when it is only a memory. He has known many happy days; days which are golden as he looks back upon them across the years; but among them all no day spent in the out-of-doors, in touch with fields and stream and sky, stands out more clearly and alluringly against the background of yesterday than that passed with the dearest woman in the world upon the banks of the Bluejay. The sun was low in the west as we started homeward, and from the summit of a low hill over which the road led, we looked north and eastward over miles of woodland and cultivated fields, and saw in the distance the glistening waters of the bay. Yes, there is the lighthouse at Manito-waning, and the children are watching for us. In spite of the alluring beauty of the scene, something more attractive awaits us yonder. We must hasten.

Before leaving home it had been decided that all but one member of the family should spend a portion of the vacation time in visiting old friends.

Accordingly, when Sault Ste. Marie was reached, the devotee of rod and reel turned his face towards the north, while the wife and children took steamer for Chicago. The trip into the woods was not undertaken alone, for a fisherman friend who shall be known as Jim, one of the best of comrades, was waiting at the Canadian “Soo” to bear us company on the visit to the Algoma woods. What name, if any, the railroad bears which runs from the “Soo” sixty miles northeast, we do not know. The company does not depend upon passenger traffic for revenue, for that would mean bankruptcy. The road is used for hauling out logs, with the suggestion now and then made that some day it will be extended to Hudson’s Bay. The day before we were to go up the line, a trestle had been partially burned, and the train crept fearfully over the half-repaired structure. We were probably some five or six hours running the sixty miles which brought us to Trout Lake and the shack where we were to stop.

Through the kind offices of the Superintendent of the Algoma Railroad we had been able to secure accommodations with a forest ranger, who had a comfortable cabin and was an excellent cook. It was the only building for many miles around, and Edwards, the ranger, must know some lonely hours, especially during the long winters. Lest others may share the delusion of a friend who said that he wondered we did not starve at such a long distance from market, listen to the bill of fare: plenty of good bread and butter, eggs, bacon, toast, trout, with blueberries and raspberries _ad libitum_. Less than eighty rods away was a lumber camp where we could get milk and cream, and in return for trout the cook kept us supplied with delicious blueberry pies. The man who is on friendly terms with the cook for a logging camp need never suffer from hunger.

The first night after our arrival we were awakened by a knocking at the door. Upon being admitted the visitor told of a sick child which had been brought up from the city in hopes that the change might prove beneficial. The mother and child were living in a tent and they feared the little one was dying. Had we any medicine? We had, and he departed with it. The next morning the baby was reported as being better, and the following Sunday when we were invited to dinner at the logging camp, the mother and child were at table with us. When we saw that mother feeding baked beans, boiled ham, pickles and pie, to a child that had recently been at the point of death with cholera infantum, we had an unexpressed conviction that it would take something more than cholera-mixture to save the child this time. However, so far as we could learn, the little one survived in spite of its mother’s folly. Possibly ham and pie are specifics in this disease.

The country here is broken, rocky hills of considerable size almost surrounding the lake. Neighbouring lakes are to be found in nearly every direction, one of them less than half a mile away. From these lakes trout of large size may be taken, but not with the fly; at least at the time of year when we visited them. They seemed lazy and somewhat indifferent even to the minnows offered them. Now and then one would deign to respond to our invitations, but it was never with any enthusiasm. It will always remain an open question whether the huge trout that coquetted with Jim’s hook, one day, was a reality or a phantom. We were on a lake some three miles from camp and had taken a few fish. Fishing in some fifteen feet of water, Jim had a strike and brought a big fish so near to the surface that he was plainly seen by the three of us, and then the exasperating rascal quietly sank down out of sight. The bait was immediately lowered and a prompt response secured in the shape of another strike. Again the trout came within clear view, and again, without any apparent haste, disappeared. How many times this was repeated deponent saith not; but the repetition of this ungracious performance went on until even Jim’s patience was exhausted and we went on our way.

It was on this lake, near the outlet, that we came upon a beaver-house, recently built. We did not get a sight of the shy animals, but saw many evidences of their work in the stumps and freshly cut pieces of wood. A well-beaten path led from their timber reserve to the edge of the water, and they evidently floated the timber to their building some twenty rods away. The discovery of this colony called out numerous stories from the forest ranger of his experiences with the beaver, in the recounting of which he referred to the “outlaw” beaver which lives alone and in a hole in the bank of some stream or lake. The Indian theory is that this exile has been driven out by the members of his family on account of his bad disposition or for some crime committed against the society of which he is a member. We must confess to a measure of skepticism as to the absolute trustworthiness of this bit of natural history, and only the testimony of a well-known naturalist established it in our minds as an indubitable fact.

The best August fishing in this section is to be found either in the streams or just where they empty into the lakes. Here the sprightly, always-up-and-doing brook trout furnish real sport. In the Chippeway River, outlet of Trout Lake, we made good catches, and where a spring brook empties into the lake, sport that met our highest desires was found. One spot on the river made an indelible impression. It was where the stream, rushing against a wall of rock, was sharply deflected, forming a deep and shaded pool. The timber grew so densely all about that it was seemingly impossible to fish this pool from the shore, and its depth made wading out of the question. By dint of much climbing and fighting with underbrush, the top of the rock was reached, from which point of vantage one could look down upon the pool and the big trout lying near the bottom. While the rod could not be used on account of the brush, it was possible to drop a line into the water from the over-hanging rock, and however unsportsmanlike this may have been, it was done with most satisfactory results. Eight large trout were pulled up, hand over hand, from this secluded retreat.

The mouth of the cold brook yielded the largest returns of any one spot found during our stay. Just as the sun was going down, to send a cast of two or three flies dancing over this water was to be rewarded by doubles frequently, while rarely did the flies go untouched. Then back to the cabin and, after one of Edwards’ good suppers and a chat about the roaring fire, to bed and to the sleep that “knits up the ravelled sleeve of care” and sends one forth to the new day buoyant and rejoicing.

```_Full many a glorious morning have

`````I seen

````Flatter the mountain-tops with

`````sovereign eye,

```Kissing with golden face the

`````meadows green,

```Gilding pale streams with heav-

`````enly alchymy._

`````--William Shakespeare,

`````_Sonnet XXII._

XVI. IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR

HEN our steamer, the “Tunisian,” docked at Liverpool after a quick and pleasant voyage, the two brothers of my good friend and travelling companion, Dr. W., were waiting to greet him. It was something like half a century since my friend had left his home among the Welsh hills to devote his fine mind and loving heart to the ministry of Jesus Christ in America. Were this the place, one might write many a chapter concerning the faithfulness and fruitfulness of that ministry which has brought such priceless blessings to so many lives and helped so largely in building the Kingdom of God in the new world. However, it is of his early home rather than of the man, that we are to write just now.

It was because the writer was his brother’s friend that one of these strong-faced Welshmen extended a cordial invitation to be his guest when, later on, Dr. W. should visit his native town. So it came to pass that after the great meetings in London were over, we started for the little village of Garndolbenmaen where Dr. W. was born and had spent his earlier years.

We had counted not a little on making the ascent of Snowdon, and in spite of the cloudy, threatening weather, ascend it we did. Boarding the toylike car on the little narrow-gauge road, we were slowly hauled up the mountain side. We had hardly begun the ascent when the country about began to unroll like a panorama below us. Yonder is a thread-like stream, and beyond it the mines with their piles of slack marking each opening. Higher up, the clouds were all about us, shutting out everything but the immediate vicinity, and before we reached the summit, rain had begun to fall. The only relief to our disappointment was when, for a moment, the clouds broke and we looked far over mountains and valleys. Down at our feet and leading away towards the east was a white road on either side of which were little squares of cultivated fields. Towards the south loomed the tops of high hills, the sides of which were hidden by the clouds, while towards the west we caught just a glimpse of the Straits of Menna.

A little later we were riding along the shores of the Straits and looking across to Anglesea. To those familiar with religious work in Great Britain, one figure stands out, giant-like, whenever the name of that island is heard. Here Christmas Evans prayed and preached, turning many hundreds from sin to righteousness under the sway of his matchless eloquence. Farther on we passed Carnarvon Castle where, according to a tradition now generally discredited, Edward II, first Prince of Wales, was born.

Night had fallen when we reached the Garn station, a mile or more from the village which straggles up the side of one of the foot-hills of the Snowdon range. A cheerful fire was blazing in the open fire-place when we entered the house, and it seemed a symbol of the warm and generous hospitality extended to the American stranger. There is something indescribably attractive about one of these Welsh homes. Perhaps “hominess” describes it best. The absence of ceremony and the presence of a spirit of kindliness and cordiality put the stranger at his ease from the first. The days spent under that roof passed all too swiftly, and, as we look back upon them, they set the heart to glowing. Since then the master of the house has passed into the great silence, but no change that time works can efface the memory of his gracious and considerate hospitality.

Sunday in North Wales is a day for rest and worship, not for golf and picnics. It was on a Saturday evening that we reached Garn, and it seemed like a “deserted village” when we looked up and down the street the next morning. Any such assumption was thoroughly dissipated later on when the hour for morning service came. Then people gathered from every direction for miles around, and when we entered the plain, Non-Conformist Church-house it was filled to the doors, galleries and all. The visitor could not understand songs or prayers or sermon, for all were in the Welsh tongue. When the sermon began my thoughtful friend, who sat beside me, jotted down the salient points of the discourse as the preacher proceeded, so that the handicapped American gained a very fair idea of the outline. It was not the sermon, however, but the singing that made the strongest impression. Needless to say, not a word could be understood, but somehow it reached the heart. The dominance of the minor would have been somewhat depressing had it not been for the occasional evident exultation and rejoicing which swept forth to fill the church.

It was at the evening service that the most profound impression was made upon the writer. The second service of the day closes before it becomes necessary to light the lamps. The sun was low in the west, when, after the sermon, a man came down from the gallery and stood up before the pulpit to sing. That song, in an unfamiliar tongue, melted the heart and filled the eyes with tears. The rays of the setting sun fell through the western windows upon the singer, and we thought of one in a far-off land and time whose face did shine when he returned to his people from talking with God. Later on our host told us that this man had been a popular concert singer whose heart God had touched during the great revival which had then just swept over Wales. The song to which we had listened told of the joy of the wanderer when he had come back from the “far country” to his Father’s house.

English is rarely heard on the streets of Garn, and not a few of the people of this section are unable to speak anything but the Welsh. On one of our days of wandering about the country we met a woman in the highway with whom Dr. W. talked in her native tongue. He then told his friend that we would stop at the home of this woman a little farther on, and excused himself for a moment while he visited a neighbouring farmhouse. Left together, the Welsh woman and the American were somewhat at a loss as to how conversation might be carried on. It was the woman, of course, who solved the difficulty. She knew one English word, and looking the visitor in the eye, she smiled and said, “America! America!” The stranger could not even say “Yes,” in Welsh, but he said it in his best Yankee and his answering smile was in the universal language. Dr. W. said afterwards that this woman’s sons were in the United States, and we found few homes from which at least one had not gone forth to the new world. It was for the sake of her boys, in part, at least, that this woman overwhelmed us with attentions when we sat in her home a little later on. Such milk we never expect to taste again. When Dr. W. said that she had served us with the “strippings,” he was compelled to explain that the Welsh dairymen keep separate the last of the milk taken from the cow--the “strippings”--as this is much richer than that given earlier in the milking. Henceforth, give us “strippings.”

As one comes to know something of the conditions obtaining in Wales, the only wonder is that they do not all emigrate. The land is generally owned by non-residents, and the rentals are high. If the tenant rescues a field from the rocks and brush, thereby increasing productivity, the rental is at once increased. Every one must pay towards the support of the Established Church. On the Sunday which we spent in Garn, the two Non-Conformist churches of the village were crowded, while only fifteen people were present at the services held by the Church of England; yet every man of these Calvinistic Methodists and Baptists was taxed for the support of the establishment. No more gross injustice in the name of religion was ever perpetrated than that from which the Non-Conformists of Wales suffer.

The valley of the Dwyfor is an idyll of peaceful beauty. One afternoon we climbed the steep hillside back of the village, and stood upon a giant rock jutting out from among its lesser fellows, where, when a mere lad, Dr. W. practised preaching to an audience made up of rocks and stones and grazing sheep. The spot was of interest not only because of the associations but for the extended view that it afforded. We faced the village and the valley, and saw the glistening waters of the sea in the distance. Here and there a patch of woods could be seen, but for the most part one beheld only carefully cultivated and fruitful fields. The Dwyfor is not a great river save in its quiet beauty.

Are you built so that every stream of water, even the output of the melting snow in the springtime, seems to say “Fish!”? Whether fortunately or unfortunately, the writer has never been able to keep his imagination from capering about when in the presence of lake or river. The shining Dwyfor had an irresistible appeal, and our host was subjected to cross-examination.

“Are there any fish in the Dwyfor?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Trout.”

“Would I be permitted to fish it?”

“Yes, by taking out a license.”

“Have you any tackle?”

“Certainly, and you are more than welcome to use it.”

The rod was heavier and stiffer than the American was accustomed to use, and the flies were absolute strangers; but, nothing daunted, the fisherman paid for his license and betook himself to the river. It is probable that Dr. W. would have little choice between going fishing and serving a term in jail; but the unselfish man trudged patiently along with his friend. If ever a stream was clearer or its banks more absolutely lacking in everything that would screen the fisherman, it is unknown to the writer. The sky was almost cloudless, no wind rippled the surface of the water, and we have a suspicion that every trout in the Dwyfor saw us when we started from Garn. At all events, they had hied them to safe retreats from which they looked contemptuously upon the fisherman and his futile efforts to fool them. One deluded fish, nearly as long as one’s finger, did lose his mental poise for a moment, just long enough to grab the fly. The verdict of temporary lunacy was promptly rendered by both Dr. W. and the fisherman, and the trout was returned to the water. Fishing in the Dwyfor was a flat failure, so far as returns in fish go.

But the fish were not the only returns of the day. When it was evident even to the most optimistic that fishing was wasted effort, Dr. W. suggested that we were not far from a “cromlech,” and off we started. A mile or so along the road, and then across the fields, and we came to one of the many Druidical remains to be found in Great Britain. The circle was small, not more than ten feet in diameter, all the stones standing and having a large, flat stone covering the top. Who were the builders? Why was it built? No voice comes from the weather-beaten stones, and wise men give differing answers.

The sun is almost touching the summit of the western hills when we reach Garn. We have tramped many miles, made a colossal failure of fishing, but there has been delightful comradeship, the blue sky, fair fields, hours in God’s open, and we are happy.

```_When all the world is young, lad,

````And all the trees are green;

```And every goose a swan, lad,

````And every lass a queen;

```Then, hey, for boot and horse, lad,

````And round the world away;

```Young blood must have its course,

`````lad,

````And every dog his day._

````--Charles Kingsley,

`````_When All the World Is Young_.

XVII. BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN

HERE’S a clam!”

“Where? I don’t see it! Can’t I get it?”

Of course he could get it, for the water in the creek was shallow and the father remembered his own boyhood too well to deny the little chap’s request. So the boat was stopped while the boy, arm bared to the shoulder, reached down to the sandy bottom of the stream and captured his first clam.

You don’t see anything interesting in that? So much the worse for you. It interested the boy, and the boy’s interest was quite enough to enlist and hold the interest of the father. If you do not yet know that whatever appeals to the mind of a child is important, however insignificant that thing may be in itself, you have something to learn.

The two, father and boy, had left the log cabin among the pines soon after breakfast in search of minnows for use in fishing. When they started out the boy went along simply because the two were chums and almost inseparable companions. The father had no thought of what that stream might mean to the lad, and he learned a lesson that morning which he will never forget. He had spent his boyhood in the country and had never stopped to think that the sights and sounds along this stream would all be unfamiliar to his city-bred son.