The stream was then at its greatest height, running with extreme rapidity, and I had, to contend with its force, only a small log-canoe, about twelve feet in length, by thirty inches at its greatest breadth, in which three of us ventured upon the turbid water, namely, John Fontaine, a French boy; Michael Walsh, and myself.  We crossed a little above the new mill-dam, which had been constructed at the expense of the Government for the Irish emigration, and we managed to get over pretty well.  Not so, however, on our return.  I was near the middle of the canoe, with a pair of small oars, one of the boys at each end, and all seated at the bottom for greater security.  In this manner we got over the main channel; but owing to the swiftness of the current, we were carried down much nearer the dam than we intended.  This alarmed the boys a good deal.  I begged them to sit still, assuring them I should be able to fetch the canoe into an eddy a little lower down the stream.  We were at this time close to an island, which was deeply flooded, owing to the raising of the water by the construction of the dam.  From the point of this sunken island, a cedar tree had fallen into the river.  It was therefore necessary that we should drop below this, before we could make the eddy.  In the act of passing, the boy Walsh—­I suppose from fright—­caught hold of the tree, which caused the canoe to swing round broadside to the current, and it instantly filled and upset.

A large quantity of timber had been cut on the island, for the use of the mill and dam.  The workmen had piled the tops and limbs of these trees in large heaps, which now floated above the surface of the island.  To one of these I immediately swam, and succeeded in getting upon it.  I then perceived that Walsh had been swept from the tree to which he had clung, by the force of the current, into the middle of the river, and close to the edge of the falls.  I saw at a glance, that his only chance was to swim for the opposite side, which I called on him to do, but he appeared to have lost all self-possession; for he neither swam for one shore nor the other, but kept his head facing up the stream, uttering wild cries, which, in a few seconds, were silenced for ever.

In the meantime, John Fontaine, the French boy, had succeeded in getting partly across the canoe, which was floating past the heap on which I had taken refuge, and only a few yards from where I was standing.  I immediately plucked a long stick from the brush-heap, and swam near enough to the lad for him to grasp one end of the pole, bidding him leave the canoe, which I told him would be carried over the dam to a certainty, and him with it, if he did not abandon his hold.  He, with apparent reluctance, followed my directions, but I had a hard struggle to regain my former place of refuge, with the boy’s additional weight.  I had some trouble to persuade him to trust himself again in the water.  And no wonder; for darkness was fast approaching, and both the island and a narrow