A long low point stretching from the south shore of the lake was faintly visible on the horizon.  It was past mid day when we reached it; so, putting in among the rocky boulders which lined the shore, we lighted our fire and cooked our dinner.  Then, resuming our way, the Grande Traverse was entered upon.  Far away over the lake rose the point of the Big Stone, a lonely cape whose perpendicular front was raised high over the water.  The sun began to sink towards the west; but still not a breath rippled the surface of the lake, not a sail moved over the wide expanse, all was as lonely as though our tiny craft had been the sole speck of life on the waters of the world.  The red sun sank into the lake, warning us that it was time to seek the shore and make our beds for the night.  A deep sandy bay, with a high backing of woods and rocks, seemed to invite us to its solitudes.  Steering in with great caution amid the rocks, we landed in this sheltered spot, and our boat upon the sandy beach.  The shore yielded large store of drift-wood, the relics of many a northern gale.  Behind us lay a trackless forest; in front the golden glory of the Western sky.  As the night shades deepened around us and the red glare of our drift-wood fire cast its light upon the woods and the rocks, the scene became one of rare beauty.

As I sat watching from a little distance this picture so full of all the charms of the wild life of the voyageur and the Indian, I little marvelled that the red child of the lakes and the woods should be loth to quit such scenes for all the luxuries of our civilization.  Almost as I thought with pity over his fate, seeing here the treasures of nature which were his, there suddenly emerged from the forest two dusky forms.’  They were Ojibbeways, who came to share our fire and our evening meal.  The land was still their own.  When I lay down to rest that night on the dry sandy shore, I long watched the stars above me.  As children sleep after a day of toil and play, so slept the dusky men who lay around me.  It was my first night with these poor wild sons of the lone spaces; it was strange and weird, and the lapping of the mimic wave against the rocks close by failed to bring sleep to my thinking eyes.  Many a night afterwards I lay down to sleep beside these men and their brethren—­many a night by lake-shore, by torrent’s edge, and far out amidst the measureless meadows of the West—­but “custom stales” even nature’s infinite variety, and through many wild bivouacs my memory still wanders back to that first night out by the shore of Lake Winnipeg.

At break of day we launched the canoe again and pursued our course for the mouth of the Winnipeg River.  The lake which yesterday was all sunshine, to-day looked black and overcast—­thunder-clouds hung angrily around the horizon, and it seemed as though Winnipeg was anxious to give a sample of her rough ways before she had done with us.  While the morning was yet young we made a portage—­that