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The name of the Lake of the Beautiful Trout made us desire to visit
it. The portage was said to be only fifty acres long (the arpent
is the popular measure of distance here), but it passed over a
ridge of newly burned land, and was so entangled with ruined woods
and desolate of birds and flowers that it seemed to us at least
five miles. The lake was charming--a sheet of singularly clear
water, of a pale green tinge, surrounded by wooded hills. In the
translucent depths trout and pike live together, but whether in
peace or not I cannot tell. Both of them grow to an enormous size,
but the pike are larger and have more capacious jaws. One of them
broke my tackle and went off with a silver spoon in his mouth, as
if he had been born to it. Of course the guides vowed that they
saw him as he passed under the canoe, and declared that he must
weigh thirty or forty pounds. The spectacles of regret always
magnify.
The trout were coy. We took only five of them, perfect specimens
of the true Salvelinus fontinalis, with square tails, and carmine
spots on their dark, mottled sides; the largest weighed three
pounds and three-quarters, and the others were almost as heavy.
On our way back to the camp we found the portage beset by
innumerable and bloodthirsty foes. There are four grades of insect
malignity in the woods. The mildest is represented by the winged
idiot that John Burroughs' little boy called a "blunderhead." He
dances stupidly before your face, as if lost in admiration, and
finishes his pointless tale by getting in your eye, or down your
throat. The next grade is represented by the midges. "Bite 'em no
see 'em," is the Indian name for these invisible atoms of animated
pepper which settle upon you in the twilight and make your skin
burn like fire. But their hour is brief, and when they depart they
leave not a bump behind. One step lower in the scale we find the
mosquito, or rather he finds us, and makes his poisoned mark upon
our skin. But after all, he has his good qualities. The mosquito
is a gentlemanly pirate. He carries his weapon openly, and gives
notice of an attack. He respects the decencies of life, and does
not strike below the belt, or creep down the back of your neck.
But the black fly is at the bottom of the moral scale. He is an
unmitigated ruffian, the plug-ugly of the woods. He looks like a
tiny, immature house-fly, with white legs as if he must be
innocent. But, in fact, he crawls like a serpent and bites like a
dog. No portion of the human frame is sacred from his greed. He
takes his pound of flesh anywhere, and does not scruple to take the
blood with it. As a rule you can defend yourself, to some degree,
against him, by wearing a head-net, tying your sleeves around your
wrists and your trousers around your ankles, and anointing yourself
with grease, flavoured with pennyroyal, for which cleanly and
honest scent he has a coarse aversion. But sometimes, especially
on burned land, about the middle of a warm afternoon, when a rain
is threatening, the horde of black flies descend in force and fury
knowing that their time is short. Then there is no escape. Suits
of chain armour, Nubian ointments of far-smelling potency, would
not save you. You must do as our guides did on the portage, submit
to fate and walk along in heroic silence, like Marco Bozzaris
"bleeding at every pore,"--or do as Damon and I did, break into
ejaculations and a run, until you reach a place where you can light
a smudge and hold your head over it.
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