but Greygown always insists upon completing that quotation from Stevenson in her own voice; for this is the way it ends,—­

     “When we put up, my ass and I,
     At God’s green caravanserai.”

Our permanent camp was another day’s voyage down the lake, on a beach opposite the Point Ausable.  There the water was contracted to a narrow strait, and in the swift current, close to the point, the great trout had fixed their spawning-bed from time immemorial.  It was the first week in September, and the magnates of the lake were already assembling—­the Common Councilmen and the Mayor and the whole Committee of Seventy.  There were giants in that place, rolling lazily about, and chasing each other on the surface of the water.  “Look, M’sieu’!” cried Francois, in excitement, as we lay at anchor in the gray morning twilight; “one like a horse has just leaped behind us; I assure you, big like a horse!”

But the fish were shy and dour.  Old Castonnier, the guardian of the lake, lived in his hut on the shore, and flogged the water, early and late, every day with his home-made flies.  He was anchored in his dugout close beside us, and grinned with delight as he saw his over-educated trout refuse my best casts.  “They are here, M’sieu’, for you can see them,” he said, by way of discouragement, “but it is difficult to take them.  Do you not find it so?”

In the back of my fly-book I discovered a tiny phantom minnow—­a dainty affair of varnished silk, as light as a feather—­and quietly attached it to the leader in place of the tail-fly.  Then the fun began.

One after another the big fish dashed at that deception, and we played and netted them, until our score was thirteen, weighing altogether thirty-five pounds, and the largest five pounds and a half.  The guardian was mystified and disgusted.  He looked on for a while in silence, and then pulled up anchor and clattered ashore.  He must have made some inquiries and reflections during the day, for that night he paid a visit to our camp.  After telling bear stories and fish stories for an hour or two by the fire, he rose to depart, and tapping his forefinger solemnly upon my shoulder, delivered himself as follows:—­

“You can say a proud thing when you go home, M’sieu’—­that you have beaten the old Castonnier.  There are not many fishermen who can say that.  But,” he added, with confidential emphasis, “c’etait votre sacre p’tit poisson qui a fait cela.”

That was a touch of human nature, my rusty old guardian, more welcome to me than all the morning’s catch.  Is there not always a “confounded little minnow” responsible for our failures?  Did you ever see a school-boy tumble on the ice without stooping immediately to re-buckle the strap of his skates?  And would not Ignotus have painted a masterpiece if he could have found good brushes and a proper canvas?  Life’s shortcomings would be bitter indeed if we could not find excuses for them outside of ourselves.  And as for life’s successes—­well, it is certainly wholesome to remember how many of them are due to a fortunate position and the proper tools.