foam, and the stranger to such a scene holds his breath amidst this war of man against nature.  Ha! the struggle is useless, they cannot force her against such a torrent, we are close to the rocks and the foam; but see, she is driven down by the current in spite of those wild fast strokes.  The dead strength of such a rushing flood must prevail.  Yes, it is true, the canoe has been driven back; but behold, almost in a second the whole thing is done-we float suddenly beneath a little rocky isle on the foot of the cataract.  We have crossed the river in the face of the fall, and the portage landing is over this rock, while three yards out on either side the torrent foams its headlong course.  Of the skill necessary to perform such things it is useless to speak.  A single false stroke, and the whole thing would have failed; driven headlong down the torrent, another attempt would have to be made to gain this rock-protected spot, but now we lie secure here; spray all around us, for the rush of the river is on either side and you can touch it with an outstretched paddle.  The Indians rest on their paddles and laugh; their long hair has escaped from its-fastening through their exertion, and they retie it while they rest.  One is already standing upon the wet slippery rock holding the canoe in its place, then the others get out.  The freight is carried up piece by piece and deposited on the flat surface some ten feet above; that done, the canoe is lifted out very gently, for a single blow against this hard granite boulder would shiver and splinter the frail birch-bark covering; they raise her very carefully up the steep face of the cliff and rest again on the top.  What a view there is from this coigne of vantage!  We are on the lip of the fall, on each side it makes its plunge, and below we mark at leisure the torrent we have just braved; above, it is smooth water, and away ahead we see the foam of another rapid.  The rock on which we stand has been worn smooth by the washing of the water during countless ages, and from a cleft or fissure there springs a pine-tree or a rustling aspen.  We have crossed the Petit Roches, and our course is onward still.

Through many scenes like this we held our way during the last days of July.  The weather was beautiful; now and then a thunder-storm would roll along during the night, but the morning sun rising clear and bright would almost tempt one to believe that it had been a dream, if the pools of water in the hollows of the rocks and the dampness of blanket or oil-cloth had not proved the sun a humbug.  Our general distance each day would be about thirty-two miles, with an average of six portages.  At sunset we made our camp on some rocky isle or shelving shore, one or two cut wood, another got the cooking things ready, a fourth gummed the seams of the canoe, a fifth cut shavings from a dry stick for the fire—­for myself, I generally took a plunge in the cool delicious water—­and soon the supper hissed in the pans, the kettle steamed from its suspending stick, and the evening meal was eaten with appetites such as only the voyageur can understand.