Our way lay along the charming bay of the Bras d'Or, over the sprawling bridge of the Big Baddeck, a black, sedgy, lonesome stream, to Middle River, which debouches out of a scraggy country into a bayou with ragged shores, about which the Indians have encampments, and in which are the skeleton stakes of fish-weirs.Saturday night we had seen trout jumping in the still water above the bridge.We followed the stream up two or three miles to a Gaelic settlement of farmers.The river here flows through lovely meadows, sandy, fertile, and sheltered by hills,--a green Eden, one of the few peaceful inhabited spots in the world.I could conceive of no news coming to these Highlanders later than the defeat of the Pretender.
Turning from the road, through a lane and crossing a shallow brook, we reached the dwelling of one of the original McGregors, or at least as good as an original.Mr.McGregor is a fiery-haired Scotchman and brother, cordial and hospitable, who entertained our wayward horse, and freely advised us where the trout on his farm were most likely to be found at this season of the year.
It would be a great pleasure to speak well of Mr.McGregor's residence, but truth is older than Scotchmen) and the reader looks to us for truth and not flattery.Though the McGregor seems to have a good farm, his house is little better than a shanty, a rather cheerless place for the "woman " to slave away her uneventful life in, and bring up her scantily clothed and semi-wild flock of children.And yet I suppose there must be happiness in it,--there always is where there are plenty of children, and milk enough for them.A white-haired boy who lacked adequate trousers, small though he was, was brought forward by his mother to describe a trout he had recently caught, which was nearly as long as the boy himself.The young Gael's invention was rewarded by a present of real fish-hooks.
We found here in this rude cabin the hospitality that exists in all remote regions where travelers are few.Mrs.McGregor had none of that reluctance, which women feel in all more civilized agricultural regions, to "break a pan of milk," and Mr.McGregor even pressed 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.