Nova Scotia stretches 500 kilometres on a southwest-northeast axis from Cape Sable to Cape North, the shape of the province is often compared to that native delicacy, the lobster, with Cape Breton Island representing the outstretched claws, preparing to nip unsuspecting Newfoundland across the Cabot Strait.
The coastline of the uplands region is deeply indented, forming many good harbours, some of which are considered outstanding. Hundreds of islands dot the landscape along the entire Atlantic coast, most notably at St. Margarets Bay and Mahone Bay. Reefs and shoals abound, accounting for the many lighthouses erected along this coast. In many ways the Atlantic uplands coast epitomizes the North Atlantic coastline with its bare granite sheets plunging headlong into the raging surf to produce an awesome cataclysm between land and sea. When people think of Nova Scotia, they usually envisage the rocky granite shores of the uplands. Four Haligonians and Their Amusing Adventures on a Fishing Trip
The many fishermen friends of my acquaintance have told me some wonderful stories of their favorite lakes and never seem to tire of relating the exact details of the big ones that got away, but today I believe I have a true story of olden days in Halifax, of four Haligonians, and their amusing adventures on a fishing trip which took place over one hundred years ago.
In the limited time at our disposal for our chat today under the Old Town Clock, I regret that it is necessary to leave out some of the detailed descriptive comments of the original story as told by a former well-known citizen, Peter Lynch, Queen’s Councillor, who brought this story to light some sixty years ago in an address before the nova Scotia Historical Society.
It’s a story of Spider Lake, which you will find on your maps, over on the Dartmouth side towards Waverly.
Years ago, there was no one in the Town of Halifax better known than Joseph Hobson, the Barber. His shop, the resort of all classes, was on the north side of Duke Street.
He was an ardent fisherman. No disciple of Isaac Walton ever more delighted in the sport, or more skillfully and successfully whipped a stream. With an eye to business, and knowing how much he was missed when he was away, he did not allow his rod to keep him from his shop, and although during the fishing season, he was every week to be found at some of the neighboring lakes and streams, he managed to indulge in the one and sedulously attend to the other by leaving his home in the night at such time as to enable him to be at the fishing ground as the day broke, and after some three hour’s sport, to be back to his shop by breakfast time looking as neat as a new pin, and as fresh as a daisy. The dish of glittering fish displayed on the sill of the capacious shop window, generously told the nature of the morning’s occupation.
Next door to Hobson’s dwelt an old shoemaker by the name of Izet, a character in his way. He was just as enthusiastic a fisherman as his neighbor. Strange to say although the two men were always on the best of terms and held daily converse with each other, they never fished together. Izet had his fishing companion, George Illes, whose grocery shop occupied a corner some three blocks above that of his friend. They were both Scotchmen.
Joe Hobson, the Barber, also had a friend. He was Geordie Anderson, a man possessed of many of the same qualities of mind and heart as Hobson, and was one of the jolliest wags in town. He had not an enemy in the town, except those upon whom he had perpetrated some practical joke, for he was an inveterate practical joker. That overweening passion had cost him some friend, much money, and many a hard run, and not infrequent tussle, in which he was apt to come off second as he was but a small man. He was about five feet high and was of slight build. His dress was a long-skirted coat, a waistcoat which reached down to his hips with large flap pockets and his short but well formed were cased in knee breeches, grey woolen stockings and ankle-jack boots laced tight to his ankles. Above all those, resting in an ample white neck-cloth was a lean good nature face. Such was Geordie Anderson, the friend of Joe Hobson. They frequently talked together, often walked together, and always fished together. Geordie was of the two more reticent.
It so happened that on one memorable occasion, the two friends left their homes a little after midnight with their fishing gear, rowed themselves across the harbor and made their way through the thick bushes in the darkness towards as they thought a favorite fishing ground, but by some unaccountable blunder they had missed their way, got entirely astray and at last had to confess to each other that they did not know where they had got. Weary with wandering through the tangled bushes and fretting with the thought that they were wasting their morning in the woods, they had almost despaired of finding the fishing ground when just as the first grey streaks of light were shooting up into the heavens, they to their surprise, came upon the margin of a lake they had never seen before. It was a fine sheet of water, wooded to its margin, and lying asleep in the quiet of the surrounding hills. But just as the two men stepped upon a little hillock on the border of the lake a flop broke the stillness and a circle spread out upon the water until ring was locked in ring the whole surface of the lake was covered with gentle eddies. In a moment all sense of fatigue was forgotten, as with looks of delight the rods were quickly unclasped, joint fitted into joint, the lines were hastily put through the eyelets and favorite flies whirling through the air. The fish ignorant of the devices of the visitors, rose greedily in pursuit of the gandy flies as they skimmed the water, and in a very short time both baskets were filled, and a large bunch of splendid fish secured varying from 3 to 4 pounds in weight, and the fishermen, of course very much elated, were at home in time for breakfast.
On the way home Anderson charged his friend not to reveal to anyone their discovered treasure, and although Hobson promised to keep dark on the subject the other received the assurance with apparent incredibility “You know,” he said,” Joe, your weakness, now for once keep your own council and above all don’t tell Illes or Izet or the lake will soon be useless to us.”
In a short time after their return home the whole sill of Hobson’s shop window glistened as the light of the morning sun fell upon the fine fish, and what with the crowds who gathered around the window, and those who made their way into the shop to examine and ask about the finny monsters, there was but little to be done in the way of shaving or hair cutting. Poor old Hobson loving the truth, but yet remembering the injunction of Anderson stuttered and stammered as he perpetrated one after another of those monstrosities known as white lies, in response to the questions as to where the fish had been taken. About eleven o’clock when most of the crowd had dispersed, old Izet who had heard of the wondrous display, appeared in the shop with his leather apron. “Hello, Joe!” said the old man looking admiringly at the fish. “Where did you get those beauties?” Hobson repeated the reply he had been giving to the others during the morning, but he had now a more cunning party to deal with.
“Oh, no,” said Izet as he looked at honest Joe and saw falsehood written upon his face. “That won’t do,” Hobson became more confused and tried to evade further questions, but his neighbor would not let him escape, and after a long time he dragged the secret out of his victim, he having first promised faithfully not to reveal it to mortal man. Of course within half an hour, it was communicated by Izet to Illes, and the two had made their arrangements for a speedy visit to the Lake. As Izet was as leaky as Hobson, he had incautiously communicated the secret to a friend, and informed him with a chuckle of the intended excursion of himself and Iles. That friend, also a chum of Anderson, soon conveyed the intelligence to him and Geordie, as early as he could manage to, made his way to Hobson’s shop. As he entered Hobson saw by his manner that a storm was ahead and was not much surprised when the other said, “So Joe you’ve let the cat out of the bag.” As evasion was impossible Hobson had to admit that he had told the secret to Izet, but under a solemn pledge that tit would not be revealed to any other. “Didn’t I tell you’d do it,” rejoined his friend. “I knew you could not hold it, and I am not much surprised. Izet’s promise of secrecy was about as good as your own. He has told it to Illes and they already have arrangements to fish the lake, and are to leave tomorrow night, but I have determined that they shall not carry out their scheme and you know when I make up my mind to a thing I carry it out.” Hobson, kind hearted old soul, tried to remonstrate with him, reminded him that they were all neighbors, and friends, and that they themselves would have felt very much hurt if Izet had made such a discovery and refused to allow them to participate in it first. But it was all in vain, and Anderson more excited and angry than his friend had ever seen him before, left the shop with a reiteration of his threat.
A short time before that, an Indian more in want of food than clothing, had offered a complete set of his clothes, including his hat and an eagle feather of portentous size, for sale, and Anderson thinking perhaps that it might be useful in his excursions through the woos, or more probably that it might aid him in carrying out one of his practical jokes, had become the purchaser of it.
On the next night, therefore, an hour before Izet and Illes were to set out, he with his full Indian suit, an old rusty musket, and the feather, piloted himself across the harbor and made his way up to the margin of the lake where he hid himself in the thicket. In due time his victims followed in their boat, landed at the place told to Izet by Hobson, and following the blazes on the trees as cut by the others as they could be discerned in the twilight, arrived on the shore of the lake just as day was breaking. As the two men stood upon the margin of the lake, no sound disturbed the repose except the gentle sighing of the woods but although there was not a breath of wind, the bosom of the lake was not undisturbed, for it was dappled all over with the fish, which were rising hither and tether in all directions. As the two enthusiastic sportsmen glutted their eyes with the ravishing scene, made doubly beautiful them by the circles on every hand, they looked at each other and with a merry laugh Izet remarked “What do you think Geordie Anderson would say if he saw us now,” little thinking that Geordie was but a few yards from them, his face beaming with delight. In a short time their hamper was opened and its contents spread out, for not knowing how long it might take them to reach the lake, they made their arrangements to breakfast there and spend part of the day. Their rods were put together with all possible expedition as the rising fish made them eager to get at once to work. Everything being ready was cautiously treading upon the yielding moss hillocks at the margin of the water when a crash of a bough of the neighboring thicket caused them to start.
No very recent atrocities had characterized the conduct of the Indians towards the whites, but past acts of treachery and cruelty were not so remote as to have been forgotten, and an Indian was therefore still an object of great dread. The evident crash of a limb near at hand, therefore, caused both men to start and look at ach other inquiringly but as nothing further was heard for the next few anxious moments, they were again to make ready for action, when another and louder crash caused them both to start, and with pallid faces turn towards the spot from whence the noise proceeded. “Did you hear that George?” said Izet. “Indeed I did,” said the other, “what can it be?” and as they both directed their anxious gaze towards the wood to their horror and dismay up rose an Indian clad in full regalia of his tribe. His face daubed with war paint and a very tall eagle feather rising from his cap gave him the apparent height of a giant. With loud and evidently angry words, purely extempore, which of course neither of the frightened men comprehended, he with impatient gesture motioned them to be off, and as they with trembling limbs hesitated, and gazed apparently spellbound, to their horror the Indian, raised a gun to his shoulder, with a wild Indian whoop. In an instant their rods were flung from them, their hamper and its contents abandoned, and they in full flight not knowing where they were going, and scarcely able to make their way along from terror, they tumbled and fell, with their clothes torn and their faces and hands scratched and bleeding, they made their way through the forest, and in a breathless state after an hour or more on the run, made their way to the shore, sprung into their boat and never felt that they were out of danger, until they were on the waters of the harbor, only too glad to have abandoned everything and saved their lives. In rags and tatters they made their way to their homes and narrated to their trembling families their narrow escape.
In the meantime Geordie Anderson as soon as they disappeared, having thrown down his musty firelock which had been innocent of powder or shot for many a long day, laid aside the cap and feather, threw himself down on the dewy moss and fairly rolled in it while his face was exuberant with delight. He, at last, sat down upon a rock, partook of the forsaken breakfast and then clearing one of the fishing rods, fished for an hour with much success, and returned in time to pay his accustomed morning visit to Hobson’s shop. His narrative of the morning’s adventure to Hobson, suffice it to say that it was interrupted by frequent and long pauses, during some of which his face became so purple and swollen, and his laughter so boisterous that Hobson begged him to desist fearing that it would result in a fit of apoplexy.
As for Izet and Illes they were the heroes of the day. Once within the precincts of the town, and feeling that they were safe, they recounted to their friends the perils from which they had escaped. They asserted that several Indians armed with guns and scalping knives had marched down upon them, and that fearing their numbers might increase, they, not being armed with anything but their rods, had thought that discretion was the better part of velour and had retired from the scene. The wondrous tale was reported from time to time for a day or two, until at last, just as Izet was finishing the narrative to an admiring audience in Hobson’s shop, Anderson appeared and raising his stick to his shoulder and pointing it at Izet, he uttered the same war whoop that he had let go at them at the lake. In a moment the truth flashed upon the mind of Izet and with a hearty malediction he fled from the shop. The audience, astonished at the sudden interruption, turned to Anderson for an explanation. He at once narrated the true version of the affair amid shouts of laughter. For days those who passed the cobbler’s shop heard the hammer of the old cobbler as with impatient blows it fell upon his lap-stone, but no one saw hi face for the next week.