would be in a state of mind that would effectually prevent any further levy upon them. So out in the river that fish must come while the fisherman takes his chances. It was a long, hard fight, carried on a good part of the time in swift water where the chances for the fish's escape were excellent; but at last, tired out and helpless, he was led into the still and shallow water near the shore. There, just as the fisherman was reaching down for him, the old politician gave a last lunge that snapped the snood, and he was free; but before he could gather strength to swim away the Preacher lay down on him, and the days of Hon. S. Maximus Fontaine were numbered.

A new fly was fastened to the leader, and the disturbed citizens were invited to interview it. A half-dozen, so small that they did not know any better, were gathered in by the Preacher in one-two-three order. Then came a tug that meant business, and the Preacher began kicking himself for forgetting that landing net. It seems that a big politician from the Miramichi had come up to see how Hon. S. Maximus managed things, and as he had seen his friend tackle that first strange insect and disappear, he concluded that this was the proper thing to do. He followed his friend to the basket of the Preacher, but not until he had indulged in some contortions that nearly gave the sportsman nervous prostration.

By this time the shadows had thickened and George was yelling: "Supper's ready." He was mistaken. It took about fifteen minutes to dress and fry those half-dozen small trout—not one under half a pound—and while they were cooking the Preacher weighed his prizes. Hon. S. Maximus came within two ounces, and his friend within four ounces of four pounds. Did you ever take a four-pound trout, or even a three-pounder, on a light rod? Then you know how self-satisfied that Preacher was.

The tent had been pitched on a little plateau some fifteen feet above the river. It was nine o'clock when supper was finished and the dishes washed, horse picketed and everything made ready for the night. The caribou skin was laid on the bed of boughs, the blankets made ready for cover, and George and the Preacher "retired." The campfire shone out against the dark background of the wooded hills, the river sung a lullaby, and George told a story about a moose that he had killed the previous winter not more than forty rods from the spot where they were lying, and—when the Preacher waked he was freezing. The fire had gone out, it was nearly daybreak, and those blankets seemed made of gauze. He had no inordinate affection for George under normal conditions, but now he rolled over and clasped him to his heart. George seemed to have lost his fear of the Preacher, and for the remainder of the night each tried to use the other as a stove. Each failed of absolute success.

It is evident that the teller of this story has violated one of the fundamental rules of homiletics, and made his porch too large for the house. There remains a whole forenoon of fishing to be disposed of and no time to tell about it. But if we had unlimited space at our command, who could fittingly describe even an hour of successful dalliance with the festive trout?

There were no more of the size of the political boss and his friend; but how they came! Something over fifty trout preferred the Preacher to the town-meeting, and when noon came that meeting had adjourned sine die—especially die. Some were eaten for dinner, some were on the table at the Doaktown hotel that night, George had what he wanted, and twenty-one went back with the proud Preacher to Fredericton the next morning.