with a hook at the end of each arm; and we pulled up the fishes by threes and fours at a time. In short, it was quite a merry game, of— in-bob-pull-belay, unhook-bait-in again-bob again-pull again-belay again, and so on ad infinitum.

Mathews caught his fish, baited his hook, and caught his fish again in high glee, until he grew tired of the fun. Then he cocked a straw hat on his hat, perched himself upon a tub, "end up," and sang sea songs, the "Polly packet," and all those inimitable drolleries, which, effective as they were upon the stage, were worth hundreds a year when they burst out by "spontaneous combustion:" on the principle that "one volunteer is worth two pressed men."

At first the two fishermen (I mean the professionals) seemed at a loss what to think, or do;-then their muscles began gradually to relax, until they finally joined in the laughing chorus, and it would have done a hypochondriac's heart good, to hear the way they roared. This was Mathews's delight: he was in his glory, and never did I see him "come out" to such advantage. At the same time I observed that even amidst their reiterated peals of laughter, the owners of the boat now and then paused, and shook their heads in a mysterious manner, utterly inexplicable to me, or in fact, to any but themselves.

A day or two afterwards, the day being again very fine, I was lounging on the beach, when Brown the fisherman approached, and touching his hat," a very fine day for rock fishing, sir," he said. "I dare say it is, Brown, but I shall not go out to day." "Sure to hook fish, sir."

"No doubt, but I don't feel inclined."

"Boat's handy, sir," pleaded Brown, "nice and clean,—and all thelines ready,-nothing to do, but shove her off."

"No, I won't go to-day."

Brown was evidently nonplussed. He did not know how to urge me further, but after a pause, still loitering near me, he exclaimed, "Lord sir, I wish you would go out with us again to day, and bring that 'ere mad gentleman with you!"

I have already written myself down no dabbler in the hooky art, but I will now propound a problem to the wiser generations of adepts in that "line," and ask them, "did you ever BOB?' I'll answer for it "No," so you may just as well confess your ignorance at once, and read and learn.

Throughout all Uncle Sam's dominions, the folks are red hot fishermen Bobbing is therefore just as much a heresy with them, as it would be with all fairgoing piscators here, nor is it fit for any, save such muffs as the inventor and myself, who think "all fish that comes to net."

NO. III.-VOL. I. -NEW SERIES.

2 E

Take then, the skin of a young duck, or if that is not easily procurable, belay three or four large hooks on a very strong line back to back, and tie above them, firmly on the line, feathers of every hue, pieces of gay and gaudy cloth, and flaring ribbons. This is your BOB. Having thus dressed your "Robert," choose a long, light rod, and a strong reel, on which have about thirty yards of very strong silk line.

Thus armed, let the "Bobber," on some warm day between the 1st of July, and the end of September (if the sky be cloudy, it is better), drop, with a skilful paddler, down the creek or river, as noiselessly as a cat stepping over a pat of butter. Then let him, sitting in the prow of the boat, with about six feet of line out, play his BOB to and fro upon the water.

The fish thus taken, are called trout; although they are in reality no trout at all, but rather a species of immense perch. They are good eating, and sometimes weigh from twelve to fifteen pounds. Only fancy for one moment, twelve pounds jumping at your Bob and swallowing it bodily, just as the seaserpent would a lame nigger. Such a dash there is, and such a plunge-and then rat-tat-tattle goes your reel at such a pace and then you pull him—and your rod creaks and bends -and then you give him out more line; and then, all of a sudden up he comes again, and springing some two or three feet clear out of the water, floats on the top, and then you slip your net beneath him, and just lift him out. And then-what do you think of BOBBING!

I have yet many" Fishing Freaks" in store, which I consider worthy to be jotted down; but for the nonce, one other yarn, from t'other side the herring pond, must suffice.

The locus in quo of this last freak, was "Lake Horican," or as it is otherwise called, "Lake George," famed as the scene pictured by Fennimore Cooper, in his most spirit-stirring tale, "The Last of the Mohicans."

Sunk in the bosom of a thousand hills, varied with rock and verdure, Lake Horican lies calm and still. Its waters, deep, and clear, and motionless, mirror the heaven's blue; or, by their gentle ripple, trace the course of every passing breath of air. Its rocks, its inlets, and its craggy islands, harbour ten thousand echoes; but voiceless and unbroken is their sleep; for the thick covers which surround the lake harbour only the active squirrel, and the timid deer; and two or three log huts alone, through all the many miles that lake extends, give signs of man's vicinity.

Yet does Lake Horican not always rest in this repose. Sudden storms burst often from the hills, without an hour's warning, and in an incredibly short space of time, the scene of sweet tranquillity is changed to one of frightful violence. Those only who have witnessed, can believe the rapid rise, and fearful progress of a Lake storm; which in

these regions, rouses the admirer of nature from his pleasure dream to struggle for dear life itself, with the most arduous labours of a fearless heart, and ready hand.

This lake is full of fish of every kind: the pike, the trout, and the perch, being of the finest size and flavour. So celebrated, indeed are they, that their fame induced a thorough-going fisherman, a Georgian, whom I met at Montreal, to undertake an expedition " up the lakes," as it is usually termed, for the express purpose of trolling in Lake Horican: and I accompanied him, from sheer want of a better pastime.

From Montreal, we steamed across the St. Lawrence to Laprairie ; whence we were whisked along a railroad, fifteen miles in three quarters of an hour, to St. Johns, a neat little town at the foot of Lake Champlain. Here we took an early (12 AM.) dinner, for in this part of the country, all the folks are a stage in advance of the Old World; and at half-past one, we found ourselves on board of the Franklin steamboat, steaming up that splendid panorama of freshwater scenery, the Lake Champlain.

The lake, at first but narrow, expanded as we rapidly progressed, and left the blue mountains of Chambly farther and farther in the distance. The shores at one time low and flat, at others rising into upland, were clothed with wood. Here, the broad oak, the spreading beech, the tall gaunt poplar, darkened the water's edge;-there,-the white, withered pine-trees, dropping to decay, proclaimed the unhealthy swamp; whilst often, through a short and scanty brushwood, trimmed to the water's edge, beside some tributary creek,-patches of clearing under cultivation, might be seen, smiling around the isolated cabin of the settler. We touched at Isle Aux Noix, and Plattsburgh, and night fell as we were entering upon the mountain beauties of the lake.

Night came, and with it came the night caps. The pigeon holes had each their occupants; and many, who had no pigeon holes (for there were not enough for all), were busily employed in shaking down their mattrasses and blankets on the cabin floor and tables. Now and then, two individuals would lay claim to the same pigeon hole; owing to some mistake of the captain in setting down the names (which was always done upon the principal of "first come, first serve"), and then most fearful was the confusion, until the higher powers interfered, to soothe their troubled breasts. The best story I ever heard, of the power of priority of claim in such a case, was that of a Yankee wag, who being worried to death by the "live stock" in his pigeon hole, vociferated loudly for the steward

• The superior beauty of the North American forest scenery is readily accounted for by the fact, that there are there one hundred and twenty different species of forest trees, whilst in the same latitude, in Europe, only thirty-four are to be found.

"Steward!-Steward!-I say"

Yes, sar-Cummin."

"Bring the captain's bed bill here directly-"

"Yas, sar! here 'em is. Wot's a matter."

"Matter! you rascal-why here's no end of a lot of gentlemen in my bed. If they've put their names down first, it's all right. But if they didn't,—burn me if you mustn't turn 'em out, or give me back my fare."

After some time, the riot sank to sleep, though not to silence! for upwards of three hundred human beings were snoring in one room, and running a chromatic nose-scale, from the roaring of the Bull of Bashan, up to the grasshopper's chirp! One fellow drawls out his snort in a long "crescendo," ending in an abrupt "diminuendo." Another gives loud and vigorous jerks, like a dreaming bull-dog. There goes the thick, gurgling aspiration of such a carbuncled nose as adorns not the visage of teatotallers. That shrill small sound comes sneaking into the world in a way which at once proclaims the pettifogging lawyer's snore. Hark how it dies away, like the death moan of a consumptive flea; whilst at the same moment bursts on the other ear, the round, full, wholesome NKHAUGH! of some substantial Vermont farmer! Some snouts are emulating fattened pigs; some, singing kettles; some, the loud spurts of a high-pressure engine; some, the soft purrings of a gentle tabby; but, above all, rises the full, majestic snore of the fat gentleman at the far end. This nasal blast breathes a deep, rumbling sound, like pebbles rolling in the whirl of the retiring tide.-It waxes louder.-The cabin, with its thousand snorts, rings only with the "roll" of one. See,-how his scanty curtain quivers in the sound. He has aroused himself-the thunder ceases! Hark! He "swears a prayer or two, and then he snores again!"

For my own part, I dare ay that eventually I snored as loud as any but it was only for a short time, as we were summoned at three o'clock in the morning, to be put ashore; which, in a quarter of an hour afterwards, was accordingly accomplished.

Our position was now not the most pleasant in the world. The moment that the boat grounded, out jumped we, out tumbled our boxes after us-off shoved the boat-and in less time than all this takes to tell the steamer steamed away again. There we stood on the shore. It wanted a full hour of sunrise. There was no moon. The night, or rather, the "morning," was bitterly cold; and, to crown all, we had been landed at no town or village, but at a ferry, where the ferryman's log cabin was the only dwelling. However, there was no help for it, so we knocked up the ferryman, and sat inside tho house, blowing our fingers, until the dawn afforded him sufficient light 10 ferry us across.

Here we were not much better off than before.

"How shall we get

to the Upper Falls?" was our question to our Charon.

"Guess yer'll walk," was his reply, "unless the farmer hereaway can fix yer up some kind o' fixin' for a ride. Ye'd better see about it :" and with the words, he shoved away, and left us.

Walking, with our heavy baggage, was out of the question; so leaving my companion to take care of the traps, I started in search of "the farmer."

I found this worthy on the very point of starting from his home, with his two horses harnessed for the plough; I instantly broached the subject in a business-like way,-and very shortly drove a bargain with him.

"And now," said I, "let's see what sort of vehicle you've got." "Veehuckle!" I reckoned you were gwoin' to ride the critters." "Why, what's to be done with the boxes."

"Aye, there yeu go agin.-But here's the fix,-I ain't got no veehuckle, only a teembercart."

"A what!"

Do

you guess

?"

"A teembercart,-a pole fixed on four wheels. "Indeed I do, but no matter, go we must." And go we did :-after this fashion. We took our friends teembercart, and having nailed a couple of shingles on the pole, for foot-boards, we tied our bags and boxes, fore and aft, and sat back to back, steadying ourselves and one another as we best could; and in this manner Jonathan's "teember-cart" brought us, with many bumps, and thumps, and tumbles to the Upper Falls.

The Upper Fails, a small village at the foot of Lake Horican, a distance of seven