Hawthorn Fly Fishing & Angling Collection

Fishing in Eastern Canada Chitty, Henry 1929

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Reprinted  from
Harry Hawthorn Foundation
for the
Inculcation & Propagation
of the Principles & Ethics
of Fly-Fishing Foreword
in the first chapter, the writer of this foreword is described as ' one of
those people who hate fishing and all its works.' Fifty years ago I was
given a copy of ' The Compleat Angler,' at Christmas; and, after reading this
' work ' I avoided books on fishing for half a century. The second ' of
its works ' was ' To Hell with Fishing.' The title expressed my sentiments
with such precision that I read it with interest and passed it on to my
brother-in-law, vainly hoping to effect a cure.
The third and most important ' work ' is ' Fishing in Eastern Canada.'
Its approach is less theological and more personal than that which was
adopted in ' To Hell with Fishing.' It is too short for review or summary,
and I shall confine myself to a few remarks about the author.
In this little book we find a hero, the black bass, and a heroine, the
little girl from Texas at whose feet the tribute was laid. On the other hand,
a not unbecoming modesty has prevented the author from saying much
about the unique place won by him in the hearts of the many Canadians
whom he met.
There was one quality which set the author apart from all other fishermen whom I have known or of whom I have heard tell. When making
plans, in the early summer, for her brother's reception, my wife consulted
Napoleon Trudel, who knows fishermen and tackle. He sold her a ' de-liar,'
which she presented to Sir Henry upon his arrival. A ' de-liar ' is a gaff
equipped with a spring scale, which records the weight of the fish when it
comes out of the water. It is an almost universal practice for fishermen to
take their ' de-liars ' to the locksmith for adjustment of the scale. There
is one recorded instance of an ardent angler, who weighed his offspring
with his ' de-liar,' on return from the maternity hospital, and was delighted
to learn that his son had gained ten pounds in its first week. Sir Henry is
probably the only living fisherman who uses a ' de-liar ' without adjustment.
He is one of those fishermen, few and far between, who could be regarded
as credible witnesses when talking about the number and weight of their
I am not qualified to pass upon Sir Henry's prowess as an angler. At
Lac Philippe I watched him casting-. With an apparently effortless wrist
action he would cast to within a foot of his target at distances upwards of
a hundred yards. How far he could east, if extended, I do not know.
When a representative of a leading Canadian newspaper asked me whether
I could confirm a report, which had come in from the Gatineau, that a tall
visiting Englishman had cast and landed a small mouthed black bass from
a distance of four hundred yards, I could neither deny nor corroborate the
story. At any rate, there is no doubt that Sir Henry succeeded in winning
the respect, admiration and affection of the members of the brotherhood
(and sisterhood) of anglers whom he met on his Canadian holiday.
T.   E.   R.
The Peace Palace,
The Hague,
Sir Henry Chitty, who lives at Dal-
wood, Lower Bourne, has recently returned from a two months' fishing
holiday in Eastern Canada, which he
describes as a country of beautiful
lakes, more water than land and
teeming with millions of fish—a veritable fisherman's paradise. The article
written specially for the ' Surrey and
Hants News ' will be published in
several   instalments.
I iam going to try to tell you something about fishing in Canada, but before I start I have one or' two things to
say. First, I want to express iny thanks
to the many kind and friendly people
who made it possible for me to fish in
their waters. Second, I want to assure
them and others who may chance to
read this that I do not propose to give
anything more than a few impressions
gained during a two months' stay in the
Dominion; that my experience was confined to a small part of Eastern Canada,
and that I fully realise my own inadequacies for the purpose I have in mind.
It is an impertinence for any man to
go to another country and tell the inhabitants how they ought to fish. Far
be it from me to do so. In all humility
I will tell you what I attempted, and
make a few suggestions which in my
opinion might be worth trying. That is
as far  as I will go.
My stay in Canada was all too short,
and my host saw to it that I attended
to a good manv other things besides
fishing. Perforce I had to submit to his
kindly discipline, although, once I had
visited their lovely lakes and felt the
dramatic rush of my first bass, had I
been free to fill up my days as I pleased
. . . but I was not. It was soon made
clear to me that a certain amount of
lunacy was permissible, but it must be
kept within limits. Even golf claimed
my attention (I last played in 1914),
and, of course, I must be taken to
Niagara, and there were lots of people
who wanted to ask me over a, glass of
sherry how we got on with our meagre
rations, etc. So you see angling had to
take its chance in a round of hospitable
gaiety. Besides this, my host just happened to be one of those people who
bate fishing and all its works.
Cotfacp a.t Newcaift-e, Lake Or\fr y^. ~~x W
Sketch by the Author ' TO HELL WITH FISHING '
At the end of my first expedition to
the lakes he gave me a copy of a book,
entitled ' To Hell With Fishing,' a very
amusing work which exposes the
angler's frailties, but curiously enough
gives a very accurate impression of the
angler's art. Quite definitely my host
took a dim view of boats, rods and spinners. The less time spent messing about
with that sort of thing the better.
Well, first let me tell you something
about the potei
Eastern Canada
parts there is
and I can quit
tialities of the fishing in
had breakfast, to Montr
had tea, I saw below me miles and miles
of forests, and literally hundreds of
lakes. Apparently all of these lakes
contain fish, and many have never even
been fished. I can assure you it was a
sight to rouse the most pessimistic
angler to a wild state of expectancy and
enthusiasm. There must be millions of
fish just asking to be caught! But it
is not so simple as that.
You must first get to your lake before
you fish it. Long distances must be
traversed by roads, by tracks or by cutting your way through the ' bush.'
There are many magnificent broad highways in Canada connecting such places
as Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto and
Niagara, but when you try striking out
away from these main routes you find it
a different matter. The furthest I went
to a lake was about 40 miles from
Ottawa, and the best part of this
journey took me over a road that shook
me to the core, travelling in an ancient
Ford car overladen with stores and gear.
I   only   once   tried  the  ' bush.'      We
made our way through half a mile of it
from one lake to another. Our guide
went ahead plying his hatchet when
necessary, while I scrambled after as
well as I could manage, looking fearfully about me for poison ivy (a serious
menace in Eastern Canada) carrying my
rod butt-foremost as directed. How
well can I remember as a boy being
ordered, on pain of death, always to
carry my rod point first. Not so in
Canada! The tendency is, however, for
these nearer lakes to get fished out, and
you may get better sport by going further afield, 70 or more miles from the
great towns.
And what of the lakes themselves?
Well, I saw a dozen or more of them
and, except in size, they were much
alike. They may be a mere two miles
long, or they may be 40 or more. There
is generally an island in the lake, and
often dozens, which may be a few feet
of rock breaking the surface or large
enough to provide many pleasing fites
for cottages amongst the trees. There
is rock, grey rock, everywhere, something in the nature of granite. So little
soil is there on top of it that it is difficult to see how the trees can grow. But
grow they do, firs, maples, cedars, oaks
and many others thrusting their roots
down into the cracks, standing firm
against storms which would bowl our
elms  over like ninepins.
For the most part the lakes are entirely surrounded by forests, but here
and there the grassland of a farm has
broken a gap and reached the water's
edge. There are in places reedy patches
along the banks, but almost everywhere
the edges are rock, sometimes steep
cliffs rising 20 feet or so. Rising away
from the shores are the tree-clad hills
ascending to 300 feet, matching the
depth of the lake. For 200 or 300 feet
down in the icy depths in the summer
months lie the big grey trout.
II.    The   Cottages   Described
Where was I? Oh yes, the lakes and
the grey trout. Round the shores of
the lakes and on the shores of the
larger islands are the cottages which
' stand in their own grounds ' (as our
advertisements say) of perhaps an acre
of ground which may include a little
piece of lawn and a patch of kitchen
garden, but more often only a clearing
which has been made amongst the trees
and a path cut down to the lake 50 or
so yards away.
These cottages are generally fairly
simple wooden structures, bungalows
with a verandah, almost always a
verandah, a couple of small bedrooms,
a living-room and a kitchen. The verandah is wired in to keep out the mosquitoes and flies. The outer door is likewise wired and springs to behind you as you enter. You cook on a wood-burning
or an oil  stove.
Generally, you get your drinking
water from a neighbouring spring, as it
is advisable not to risk imbibing from
the lake. If the spring is some distance
away you think twice before quenching
your thirst. The heat at times is terrific, calling for all the cold water you
can lay hands on.
And that brings me to the most important matter of the ice house—a
wooden shed situated a few yards away
from the cottage. The owner of the
cottage arranges with a contractor to
stock this. When the lake is frozen
several feet thick in winter, great blocks
are sawn out and carted up to the ice
houses where they are covered in sawdust. In summer pieces are chipped off
as required and put into the ice box in
the cottage. Life would be quite impossible  without  the ice box.
Of course, I'm talking of the plain,
rough, wooden cottage which in its most
primitive form is just a shack made of
logs cut on the spot. There are, of
course, more elaborate structures supplied with main electric current, electric
light, refrigerator, water laid on and so
forth. There are a number of these at
Chelsea Lake, near Ottawa, where electric mains are near at hand, and I found
a cottage at MacGregor Lake, where the
ingenious owner, a retired engineer, had
installed an engine to make his electric
light and pump his water, had an oil
burning refrigator, and had really
thought of almost everything, including
a wireless set, to make his home by the
lake as comfortable as possible. F like
to mention him because, although I had
no claims upon him whatsoever, he
treated me with the greatest kindness,
invited me to fish from his wharf and
lent me one of his boats whenever I
wanted to go out, typical of a greathearted and friendly people. I thank
you, Mr. Shephard, and hope that you
may perchance read these words of
acknowledgment. Your cottage was certainly a long way ahead of the average
—in fact, quite exceptional.
Now, in last week's issue there appeared a sketch of my brother's cottage
at Newcastle, on the shores of Lake
Ontario, not an ordinary lakeside cottage at all. For one thing it has two
storeys and for another Lake Ontario
is no ordinary lake and no one fishes in
it. My brother, who is a busy lawyer,
gets down there from Toronto, 50 miles
away, for his summer holidays and a
few week-ends. I had a grand week
with him there, and we were joined for
the week-end by my nephew, Christopher
Philipson-Stow, who is well known to
many in Farnham and in the R.A.F.
The first night we were together we sat
up till dawn recalling old memories and
straightening out the universe.
The only fishing I had was in a creek
at the mouth of a stream flowing into
the lake. It was a notoriously hopeless
spot for fishing, but persevering with
my spinner I caught a bass, a perch and
a pike, while numberless others thrashed
the water in vain. For what my opinion
is worth, I think they generally used
loo heavy tackle, lines, casts and spinners disturb the water too much and
frighten the fish away. When the bass
is not definitely hungry he has something of the shyness of our chub. But
more of this later. First let us return
to the grey trout.
Get My   First Trout
Yes, there may be trout as large as
151b. in weight lying in the chilly dark- .
ness at the bottom of the lake. How
is he to be brought to the surface?
Well, the Canadian answer is to troll for
him with a spoon about 4-in. long. A
simple mother of pearl spinner with
one ' triangle ' at the tail-end seems to
be the lure generally used. This is attached to the end of a copper line a
couple of hundred yards or so long,
wound on a reel of adequate size jto accommodate it. Sometimes the reel is
: built-in ' to a rod of eight or nine feet
long.    But   the   rods  vary.
The first time I went out I was lent a
little 4-foot whippy steel rod, the commonest type used generally" on the lakes
for bass fishing, and not at all suitable
for this trolling, which calls for something much stiffer. The second time I
borrowed a funny little wooden thing
about 2ft. long which, if one had found
it in England, one would have suspected
it of being a poacher's device easily concealed about the person. Anyhow, the
orthodox gear may be described as about
as tough and outsize as the tunny fisherman's  outfit.
The copper line, which may be single
strand (stiff) or multi-strand (more
flexible, but running less freely)  has a breaking strain which is just nobody's
business. You could anchor a trawler
in a storm with it. However, the Canadians know their own business best, and
they say this heavy line is necessary to
get the spinner down the necessary 200
or 300 feet.
You go out in a boat; one of the
party rows whilst the other sits in the
stern and runs out the line, plenty of it,
until he estimates that the spoon is
down among the'fish. You row over a
known course, keeping to the deep r>arts
of the lake (if you can). I was unlucky,
for whenever I went out we seemed, to
spend more time disconnecting our spoon
from the rocky bottom than anything
else, and finally we broke the end off the
Altogether, I did not like trolling for
trout. Copper wire is horrible stuff to
fish with. It will not run out through
the rod rings easily, and it is most exhausting to reel in. Although the grey
trout is a powerful fighter and maybe a
heavy fish, the odds are too heavy
against him to give him a sporting
chance. Once he's hooked on to the end
of your long, heavy cable he is doomed.
In my opinion there is not much sport
about this business. Sour grapes, perhaps.
Yet I did catch a grey trout. After
I had cast my spinner hundreds of ,times
around most of the banks of MacGregor
lake on a very bleak day without getting any response from, the bass, my
friend who was rowing turned the boat
for home. I decided to troll on the surface, and threw out a light spinner with
a frog on the tail-hook. I felt a slight
jerk and struck. A few minutes later
we had a one and half pound grey
trout in the net.
When we got back there was a gathering of the clans and general consternation. They shook« their heads. It was
all wrong/ All good trout should have
been at the bottom and not at the top
of the lake. This eccentric Englishman
had had the cheek to defy the laws of
nature and to contravene the customs of
the country. I could not have cared
less. My fish tasted none the worse for
the unorthodoxy of its catching.
IV.    Methods and Tackle
If I had known before going to Canada
what I do now, I should have taken out
other tackle, and I should have adopted
other methods, but it's easy to be wise
after the event. As it was, I took out a
short split-cane spinning rod, a large
fixed spool reel of French make (admired
and envied by every fisherman 1 met), a
couple of 6pinners (one plug, one spoon)
and a heavy wire trace, hoping vaguely
to catch a muskalonge, a fierce outsize
sort of pike. As things turned out, I
never fished in a lake where this fish
lives. I wish I had, for from all accounts he gives as good sport as any to
be found in America.
Perch, pike and bass (rock and black)
were what I had to give my attention
to.. The perch are easily caught on any
light spinner, so I had no difficulty
in securing a number of them. The
northern pike with his dappled grey
colouring bears a strong resemblance to
our pike in his manners and habits,
being taken on a large spoon or plug
bait, without showing great fight. He
inhabits most of the lakes, preying en
the other fish and lying up in the reeds.
It interested me to note that I never
came across anyone live-baiting for him.
but almost all the fishing is done from
a boat, which means that you can troll
as well as spin, so I suppose it is not
worth while bothering about an alternative method.
When you come to the black bass it is
a different matter. I repeat that when
these fish are not on the feed they may
well prove very elusive. I wish I had
known more about this, for I would
have taken out fly-fishing tackle. One
learns by experience. I can at least
comfort myself with two thoughts —
first, I shall myself be wiser next time;
and second, with luck some other intending visitor to Canada will read what
1 have to say, and go forth better
equipped. The bass can be very shy fish
in the months of July and August, when
the fishing is at its worst. When all
else fails I am sure the thing is to i e-
sort to  a fly.
I went out on Grand Lake with two
veteran soldiers and anglers, one in the
bow and one in the stern, and myself in
the middle of the boat. We rowed and
fished hard, though it was a hopeless
sort of day. After trying ' bottom ' fish- ing in a great many spots which looked
promising, but were not, we anchored
for the twentieth time and changed our
ideas. It was really and truly rather
funny, because 1 can assure you that to
have fly-fishing going on in the bow and
stern with spinning in the middle is the
height of folly.
It was not long before, looking round,
I saw that Col. ' H ' (cox) had got hi-
cast wound round the head of Col. ' D '
(bow), the fly perilously near his eye.
What is more, the only (yes, only') decent fish I hooked on my spinner
promptly fouled Col. ' D's ' line and
departed, leaving us to clear up the
tangled mess.
To those intending to fish fly or spin
ner three in a boat, I say definitely,
* Don't.' However, the point is that
Colonels ' D ' and ' H ' did take fish on
their fly, while I was unsuccessful with
my spinner. The only compensation 1
had was securing a nice bass trolling
through a patch of weed, using a curious
' wobbler ' bait, which is the colour and
shape of a banana (but much smaller)
and travels through the water with a
strange series of oscillations. It is definitely effective, I know, for we caught
several fish with it. The black bass in
clear water and hot weather is best
dealt with as if he were one of our
trout. It was my experience that he
would rise to a fly when nothing else
offered  any  attraction to him.
V.    Thirty  Bass  in  Two   Days
I am often told that my enthusiasm
for fishing exceeds that of most anglers,
and I make no attempt t° deny it or
offer excuse, possessing evidence, as I
now do, to show that as a family we
have pursued the noble art of angling
for  at   least   four  generations.
While I was in Ottawa my sister gave
me a leather case marked ' Spinners.'
It bore the name of Thomas Chittv and
was dated 1832. Spinners in 1832, mark
Now that Thomas, born in 1802, was
my great - grandfather. His son,
Thomas Edward, specialised in fishing
for barbet in the Thames, and I believe you can still see his twelve
pounder in its glass case in the riverside
inn at Shepperton, caught nearly 100
years ago. In turn, his son, Thomas
Willes, taught me to fish. Such is
But let me tell you, when I went with
my sister to stay in a cottage on Philips
Lake, I found that my kind hostess had
my enthusiasm completely beaten. At
Philips Lake we really did get down to
fishing with no nonsense about punctuality for meals or any restrictions of
that sort. I got out in the boat in the
morning as soon as it was light just for
sheer joy of exploring the waters, the
mist lending a romantic charm to their
beautiful surroundings. The fish took
no interest in my proceedings in these
early hours, but I did not care. It was
good to be alive and alone in that silent
glory of lake and forest. By experiment
I discovered that the bass will not
oblige before eight o'clock in the morning.   My hostess confirmed this opinion,
and I am sure she knew. There was
little she did not know about fishing in
that lake.
After breakfast the three pf us set out
to do a bit of ' bottom ' fishing in one
of the spots known to be worth trying.
There we anchored and got to work,
dropping our lines off the points of our
rods straight down through 14ft. of
water to within 4in. of the bottom, baiting our No. 4 hooks (on double gut)
with worm, frog or crawfish (crayfish)
and not using any floats.
It was not long before we found that
we were in luck. Also it was not long
before the blazing sun was rapidly
burning the skin off my bare arms and
knees! However, the fishing went well,
and we all had a share in the catch.
The crisis arrived at midday. Bites
came almost as fast as we could get our
lines into the water, and a bite from a
bass is no mere roach nibble, I can
assure you. You feel your line tightening —- oh, yes, not a doubt of it;
there is strong pull, sometimes accompanied by sharp jerks; you keep your
'line tight, but (vffier as little resistance
as possible while the fish runs off taking
as much line as he chooses till suddenly
he definitely takes charge and gives an
almighty pull at your line. Then, but
not before,  you  ' give him the works.'
Your tackle is strong enough to stand
it. You strike, if you are wise, with all
the strength you can apply, driving
the barb home with no uncertainty. If
you fail, and your bass breaks surface,
he will waste little time freeing himself
of your hook. When you've struck your
fish  the fun  really begins. GIVE HIM LINE
I have told you before that the rush
of a bass has to be felt to be believed.
You fancy that he will tear the rod out
of your hands. Give him line, all the
line he wants and must have, but stop
him whenever you get a chance. He
dashes furiously in all directions, and
woe betide you if he gets under the boat
and round the anchor line. Keep him
down if you can (a counsel of perfection)—he'll be up to the top if you don't,
and short of dipping the top of your rod
under water, there is little you can do
to prevent him from, getting there.
Once out of the water he'll perform
an elegant dance along the surface on
his tail and then you will soon know if
the barb has gone home or not. You
hang on gamely till he's exhausted himself (and you). I had 20 minutes'
strenuous exercise before I got my 2£
pounder safely into the boat, and then
it was a question whether I was not
more dead beat than the fish.
I recollected my struggle earlier this
yeai^ with  a four  pound   trout In   the
Wey, and realised that this had beeu
mere child's play compared with my
latest fight. Not that I have any complaint to make against this fine trout
which fought gamely, but I take off my
hat to the Canadian bass. You could
never offer me a more sporting fish.
By lunchtime (4 p.m.) we had 16 good
fish in the boat, having put back as
many as we kept. It was time to go
home. We hauled up the anchor, making the usual disturbance; I set the oars
in place and prepared to row. My
sister, intending to troll with a large
size ' wobbler ' bait, dropped it over the
side within a yard of the boat. It was
seized instantly by a bass of about a
pound, which was duly secured. That
was a day when the bass were really en
the feed, but I must say I was surprised by the greed of No.  17.
Well, these two days that I had on
Lake Philips were really wonderful.
My own catch mounted up to 30 fish,
and then there was the large one that
I missed! Mr. and Mrs. G., please accept my warmest thanks. I shall never
forget your kindness.
VI.    I   Beat  the   Hoodoo  of Chelsea  Lake
It is now time for me to weigh anchor
and row my journalistic boat to the
shore, whence I can climb to the cottage
of my dreams and therein enjoy my recollections hi angler's solitude. And
don't offer me one of those two-stroke
outboard motors to help get me home,
for I regard them as the devices of Old
Nick himself. A pair of sculls is good
enough for me. When I'm too old
and crippled to propel myself on
the water, I'll make do with casting from the bank. But there were
plenty of those little contrivances on
the lakes roaring away in fussy fury,
destroying the peace and pleasure of my
paradise and carrying their owners
along far too fast for my idea of trolling. However, I must admit that they
had their use when it came to ferrying,
and I was glad enough to be carried
across Chelsea Lake (a few miles from
Ottawa) by one of them to spend a day
with charming friends, who had a cottage perched up on the top of a rocky
promontory on  the far shore.
But the boat was definitely a ferry
boat and was not available for other
purposes.     If I wanted to fish, I must
take my chance off the land or go without.
Now let me tell you that Chelsea Lake
was not born naturally like the otiaei
lakes, but was created artificially.
There had been a demand for more electric power, the river was dammed, the
water piled up behind the dam, submerging buildings, farms and hundreds
of acres of land until there was an expanse of a mile of water from bank to
bank. It looks now just as lovely as
any of the o-ther lakes. No one would
guess that man had interfered with the
designs of nature. It looks, too*, as if
it should be just as full of fish, but it
I was warned not to expect to catch
anything. Naturally, that made me all
the more anxious to try, so in spite of
the blazing sun and intense heat I was
soon at work spinning, halving found a
large slab of flat rock from which to
operate. I toiled for hours, I tried
every kind of plug and spoon. It seemed
to be only too true; there were no fish
in this defiant lake.   I had really met my Waterloo this time. Defeat stared
me in the face.
To make things worse, at intervals a
delightful little live-year-old girl crawled
down the bank behind me and inquired
if I had caught anything yet. At least
I gathered that that was what she asked
me, but it was one of those few occasions on which my knowledge of English proved insufficient. This dear little
person hailed from Texas (where no
doubt it's all ' mighty fine '), but hei
ideas of pronunciation were not quite
the same as mine. She wTas delightfully
persistent; she was genuinely sorry to
receive my  disappointing answers.
The temperature rose steadily through
the nineties. I was facing due south,
there was no shade. I could stand it no
longer. Discarding my rod and removing my shirt, shoes and stockings, I
walked into the lake. How refreshing
it was to swim in that cool water, how
simple to dispense with a towel and come
out and dry in the sun. Forgetting my
lack of success with the rod, I climbed
up to the cottage and joined in eating
a hearty lunch of roast beef, fruit,
cream and ices, washed down very
pleasantly with iced drinks. It was extremely enjoyable sitting there out in
the open looking through the trees on
to the gleaming . waters, relaxing in
happy talk far removed from the cares
and snares of this wicked world.
I think I might have been pardoned if
I had yielded to the temptation to prolong this midday siesta till evening
should come and abate the sun's rage.
But my holiday was nearly over, and 1
was determined not to leave the lake
without pulling something out. Besides
there was the child with the sad voice
to be thought of. Shame upon me if I
failed to fulfil her hopes!
I noticed that the sun was going rouno
the point. Also I found that by dint of
scrambling    along    an    almost    vertical
slope I could, if I did not fall into the
lake on the way, reach a place whence
with luck I could cast into a little bay
by now in the shadow.
I scrambled perilously and reached the
desired spot. Putting on a little fly-
spoon I east along down under the
bank. I felt the line tighten, I struck,
I had caught a bass at last. As soon as
I had it safely landed I carried it up to
show the child, who rewarded me with
an ecstatic smile.
Four times more I climbed that slope
to place fresh tribute at her feet and
receive her congratulations before my
half-hour's run of luck came to an end.
So'ine loose floating logs drifting with
the current came to rest in my magic
bay and slopped proceedings for the
day. But having beaten the hoodoo of
Chelsea Lake I felt well satisfied. Those
were the last fish 1 caught in Canada.
Well, now I must reel in and pull
ashore. What fun it was to have such
grand fishing and what fun it has been
compiling this record of my trip! Once
again I offer most grateful thanks to all
t he kind people in Canada who gave me
such splendid hospitality. Let me also
thank those readers who have patiently
followed the tale I have told so inadequately. 1 hope you have enjoyed it.
particularly those good friends of mine
who toil in office, shop, factory workshop, garage and garden, some of whom
have been kind enough to- give me a
cheerful word or two of encouragement
during the wriling of it. If I have succeeded in enabling you to extract some
measure of secondhand enjoyment of my
experiences I am well repaid for my
pains. To anglers everywhere I say :
May good fortune attend you; to my
friends a1 home and in Canada, thank
vou and goodbye.  "Surrey & Hants News''
10, Downing St., Farnham


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