[Illustration: 9109]
T was on the Steamer “Empress,” plying between Point du Chene and
Summerside, that the Preacher said to his small son, “Yonder is the
land.” The boy gazed intently for a moment and then solemnly remarked,
“That’s the Land of Nod.” Great chap, that boy! for to his many other
accomplishments he added in that hour the gift of prophecy. It is the
Land of Nod, for every one you meet on Prince Edward Island gives you a
friendly nod, and after you have been there a few hours all tendency to
pursue the strenuous life departs, and the summit of earthly bliss
is found in sitting under the shade of an apple tree and nodding at
nothing.
Frankness demands a confession; namely, the Preacher went to Prince
Edward Island to loaf.
He was not in search of a divinity school, or a summer assembly, or a
wealthy church paying fifty dollars per Sunday for supplies. He sought
a spot where committee meetings and mosquitoes and dust and noise are
unknown; where he could have unlimited supplies of fresh vegetables,
milk, cream, johnny-cake and cornmeal mush; where he could tickle his
lungs with the breath of the sea, and, above all, where the trout hold
a reception every day in the week--except Sunday. Do I hear some
dyspeptic, pessimistic preacher saying, “There isn’t any such place?”
Skepticism is not strange in one whose cup of bliss runs over when he
finds a place where two cottages are built on a forty-foot lot and where
he can plunge into the wild dissipation of croquet.
Few good trout streams flow past the front door of a summer hotel. It
is necessary, as a rule, even on Prince Edward Island, to journey beyond
the dooryard before coming to the favourite haunts of that festive
fish. The walking is good? Yes, but the Preacher found a way that beats
walking all to death. Have a man at the hotel where you are stopping,
who keeps his own team and coachman; who counts that day lost in which
he catches no trout; who is intelligent, genial, unselfish; who invites
you daily to share his buggy in trips to streams that swarm with fish.
Such a man there is (so far as the writer knows there is but one on
the North American continent), and the Preacher found him. Do I hear
pathetic cries from my brother preachers piscatorially inclined, asking,
“What’s his name?”
“Where does he live?” S-s-h! my dear brethren. He is pre-empted by the
writer, and to protect you from any temptation to trespass, we’ll just
call him the Judge. Only the writer’s unimpeachable veracity as a teller
of fish stories will save him from mild suspicion when he makes the
following statement: The Judge, who knew every pool for ten miles around
where the big trout rendezvous, insisted that the Preacher should have
first chance at these fascinating spots. Don’t believe it? Well, no one
can blame you for your skepticism, for in the annals of fishermen
from the days of Izaak Walton until now, no other such example of
self-abnegation is to be found.
It was on a Monday morning that the Judge and the Preacher made their
first descent upon the unsuspecting trout. The point of attack was on
a tidal stream known as Tryon Creek. Some of the writer’s friends have
grinned derisively when he has told them of the “sea-trout” of Prince
Edward Island, and one listener opined that “weak-fish” were probably
meant. Of course there are always a few people around who enjoy the rare
delights of omniscience, and it is useless to offer information to such.
But for the benefit of the uninformed and open-minded let it be said
that in every tidal stream on the south shore of Prince Edward Island,
the well-known, square-tailed, speckled trout are found. They run up
with the tide and, while many go back as the tide ebbs, a few remain in
the pools. It was in pursuit of these sea-trout that we sallied forth on
this Monday morning. The tide was full when we reached the stream, the
sun shone from an unclouded sky, the wind had gone to sleep, and the
rank marsh grass hid innumerable pit-falls. Picking our way along we
cast industriously, in the middle of the stream, near the right bank,
near the left bank, up stream, down stream--and not the suspicion of
a response. Just to break the monotony the Preacher stepped into a
bog-hole and disappeared, temporarily, from view. In response to the
Judge’s anxious query, “Where are you?” a smothered voice from the
vicinity of the grassroots answered, “I’m right here.” That ended the
marsh fishing for that day, and the disgusted pair wended their way to a
pool at the head of tide-water, where their labour was not in vain.
A little after the noon hour the Judge said, “Now we’ll go up to Mr.
--------‘s and get some lunch.” If there is any home on the south shore
of Prince Edward Island where the Judge has not a hearty welcome waiting
for him we did not find it. Under a tent on the lawn we sat at ease,
while the hospitable hostess brought forth great dishes of luscious
strawberries, pitchers of cream, delicious bread and butter, and then
mourned because we would not go into the house and have something to
eat. It was with that at-peace-with-all-the-world feeling, which is
begotten of strawberries and cream, that we turned our faces once more
towards Tryon Creek. The Judge said, “Let’s try the pond.” Now fishing
from the shore of a pond is torture to the sensitive soul of a true
sportsman, so it came to pass that no sooner did we behold a canoe tied
to the bank than preparations were made for a voyage of discovery. We
discovered, all right. The Judge is a man of parts, and his fishing
weight is about 250 pounds. He perched himself on the deck at one end
of the canoe and invited the Preacher to balance him on the other. The
proposition seemed to admit of debate, but the Preacher--accustomed to
doing as he is told--clambered into the place assigned him. Then a kind
friend pushed off the canoe and--never mind the particulars, but we know
by accurate measurement that the water at that point reaches exactly
from the Judge’s hips to his armpits when he is in a sitting posture.
The canoe being righted the Judge insisted that the Preacher should
enjoy it alone while he would skirmish along the shore. This arrangement
resulted satisfactorily to all parties--unless we may except the
trout--and long before sundown, the creels were filled and the horse’s
head was turned towards home.
The writer has too much consideration for the feelings of his readers
to undertake a detailed account of all the fishing experiences of a six
weeks’ vacation, but he is not to be choked off until he has hinted at
some of the things missed by those who were not there.
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Dixon’s Mill! How the nerves of the right arm tingle just at the writing
of those two words! It was thereabouts that some of the greatest days
of the summer were spent, for the pond above the mill and the pool below
furnished unfailing supplies of noble trout. The pond was bordered
on one side by a steep hill, clothed from water’s edge to summit with
sombre fir. On the other side were the miller’s garden and the meadow.
One afternoon the Judge paddled the Preacher about this pond while the
latter industriously whipped the water with his flies. A more responsive
congregation that Preacher never had. They slept not nor slumbered, but
were up and coming from introduction to “finally.” Twenty-three trout,
filling a fifteen-pound creel, were the fruits of his joyous toil. Then,
just as the sun had gone down behind the fir trees and the night shadows
began to thicken, we addressed ourselves to the waiting throng below the
mill. There were quick and constant responses, but they did not count
in comparison with the swirl made by one old veteran as he lunged at and
missed the fly. Quickly the fly was recovered and cast again, and still
again, for many a time. Had he been pricked? Had he seen his enemy even
in the dim twilight? No, for here he is again, and this time his aim is
sure. Back and forth he rushes, the light rod bending in perfect harmony
to his movements, until the lusty foeman has made his last run and lies
exhausted in the net. He is fresh from the sea, beautiful as a dream,
the perfection of form and colouring.
It was on Dixon’s Pond that the Junior hooked his first fish. Don’t
blame him for neglected opportunities, for he was not quite three years
old and this was his first chance. It was where an ice-cold stream comes
tumbling from the hillside into the pond, and a kindly fate had decreed
that a fir tree should fall at just this spot. What a combination! No
wonder that this was a favourite tryst-ing place for big trout! But it
had its disadvantages, as any one will recognize who has undertaken
to direct the movements of a trout that has a hook in its mouth and a
tree-top handy. The Junior hooked a lusty fellow and, with some aid from
the Senior, managed to get him to the top of the water, and then there
was a lashing and a splashing that caused the small boy to open his eyes
in astonishment. Another instant and the commotion was at an end, the
trout was gone--and the hook left fondly clinging to a submerged limb.
Silence--and then the Junior remarked philosophically, “That fish spread
his wings and flew away.” Let no one fancy that the young man accepted
defeat as his portion, for a little later he captured, by his own
unaided prowess, two trout that must have weighed, together, at least
four ounces. These were carefully wrapped in paper and formed a portion
of his next morning’s meal.
We submit that a well-trained Preacheress should spend the summer
vacation sitting on the hotel piazza busy with her “tatting.” (Don’t
read that “tattling,” please.) But there is at least one of this
honoured class who, at certain intervals, abjures fancy work and insists
upon going fishing. This aforesaid assistant pastor and her young
daughter did, upon a certain day in August, with malice aforethought,
sit on the logs at Ive’s Mill and most wilfully and maliciously deceive
some forty innocent and confiding trout. Then, when the slaughter was
done for that afternoon, these two, with the Senior and the Junior, the
Judge and two young friends, sat on the grass by the singing brook, just
where some great trees cast their shadows, and regaled themselves with
the lunch so kindly provided by our hostess.
One day the Preacher was left to himself. The Judge was away on
business, the Preacheress felt no stir of ambition towards piscatorial
conquests, and the desolate man was compelled by force of circumstances
to go it alone. That was the day when he discovered the unexpected
resources of Matheson’s Bridge. This bridge spans the stream at the
head of Dixon’s Pond. It is not a public highway and is used only by the
owner of the farm. The water has worn down the bed of the stream until
there is a depth of some four feet, and it occurred to the Preacher that
here was a likely place for good-sized trout. Warily he approached and
cast from the upper side, letting his lure float down under the bridge
and then gently drawing it up the stream. The next instant he knew that
his intuitions had not deceived him. A struggle, and then a glorious
trout lay glistening in the sunshine. The farmer, who was waging a war
of extermination against potato bugs on a neighbouring hillside, came
down and lent his countenance to the stranger poaching on his preserves.
To make it short, from under that bridge that afternoon came twelve
trout that weighed not less than ten pounds.
One more experience must be told. The Judge, the Preacher and the
Southerner had gone up the de Sable River at high tide in a dory. Their
theory was that after fishing around Dixon’s Mill they would float back
on the receding tide. The theory as to the fishing and the receding of
the tide proved trustworthy; but the floating was a delusion. The fact
is, they fished too long, the tide had gone out, and the dory would
float only as it was dragged. The Southerner declared that he was
incapacitated for violent physical exertion, and furnished his share
of the necessary toil in the shape of large chunks of advice. As a
self-acting dispenser of gratuitous counsel he was immense. Behold the
Judge at one end of the boat and the Preacher at the other, shoes and
stockings off, trousers rolled above the knees, tugging and straining
at that heavy boat to induce it to float in three inches of water! When
they were fairly stuck fast and it looked as if the boat could never be
stirred again until floated by the next tide, the reproving voice of the
passenger would be heard assuring the perspiring propellers that it was
all their own fault; that if they had kept a little this way or to that
side, all would have been well. As they listened, the wonder grew in
their minds that Job ever allowed the friends who visited him in the
capacity of an advisory committee to escape with their lives. But
it takes more than a heavy dory and an unappreciative passenger to
discourage men who are firm believers in the perseverance of the saints,
and the Judge and the Preacher hauled their burden through a mile of mud
and water, and live to tell the tale.
Fair Prince Edward Island! Across the years the Preacher sees your
smiling fields and sober woods and hears the beat of the surf and the
tinkle of silver streams. Land of trout! Land of peace! Land of Nod!
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[Illustration: 0122]
```_In lands of palm and southern pine,
````In lands of palm and orange-
`````blossom
```Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.
````How richly down the rocky dell
```The torrent vineyard streaming fell
````To meet the sun and sunny
`````waters,
```That only heaved with a summer
`````swell._
`````--Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
````_The Daisy._
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