“As when the sun prepared for rest
    Hath gained the precincts of the West,
    Though his departing radiance fail
    To illuminate the hollow vale,
    A lingering light he fondly throws
    On the fair hills, where first he rose.”

The shore is strangely silent; one hears only the occasional puffing of the white whale or the sad cry of the loon.

A thrilling diversion is that of running the rapids in the Murray River.  The canoe is sent up by charette and after luncheon it is a walk or drive of eight or nine miles up the river to the starting point—­a deep, dark-brown pool, which soon narrows into a swift rapid, the worst in all the stretches to the river’s mouth.  Formerly a procession of half a dozen canoes would go through the rapid with light hearts, but, long ago, when the river was very high, a canoe upset here and one of its occupants was never seen alive again.  As one paddles out into the pool and is drawn into the dark current moving silently and swiftly to the rapid the heart certainly beats a little faster.  The water’s surface is an inclined plane as it flows over the ledge of rock.  Straight ahead the current breaks on a huge black rock in a cloud of white foam.  One must sweep off to the right, with the great volume of the water, and need catch only a little spray in swinging safely past the danger point.  Then, in the waves caused by the current, before the canoe is quite turned “head-on” a wave may curl over the bow and leave the occupants kneeling in half an inch of water.  In such a case it is wise to land and empty the canoe.  In the next rapid, a tangled maze, the water is shallow and skill is required to wind in and out among the rocks and find water enough to keep afloat.  Then the canoe slips over a ledge with plenty of water and the only care is to curve sharply to the left with the current before it strikes the bank straight ahead.  The whole trip down the river occupies two glorious hours.  There are short stretches of smooth and deep water; then the river contracts and pours with impetuous swiftness down a rocky slope.  Sometimes trees stand close to the river; then there are bare grey banks of clay; then smiling fields sloping gently up to the high land; at times the canoe is in shade, then in the flashing sunlight.  The river grows milder as it nears its mouth but the excitement does not end until we float under the bridge at Malbaie village and lift the canoe over the boom fastened there to catch logs in their descent.  To paddle home in calm water across the bay seems tame after dancing for two hours on that tossing current.