he Indians shout as they dip their paddles like lightning into the
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 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 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 t