e gathered here, and break forth through a net of
islands in a double stream, divided by the broad Ile d'Alma, into the
Grande Decharge and the Petite Decharge. The southern outlet is small,
and flows somewhat more quietly at first. But the northern outlet is a
huge confluence and tumult of waters. You see the set of the tide far
out in the lake, sliding, driving, crowding, hurrying in with smooth
currents and swirling eddies, toward the corner of escape. By the rocky
cove where the Island House peers out through the fir-trees, the current
already has a perceptible slope. It begins to boil over hidden stones
in the middle, and gurgles at projecting points of rock. A mile farther
down there is an islet where the stream quickens, chafes, and breaks
into a rapid. Behind the islet it drops down in three or four foaming
steps. On the outside it makes one long, straight rush into a line of
white-crested standing waves.

As we approached, the steersman in the first canoe stood up to look over
the course. The sea was high. Was it too high? The canoes were heavily
loaded. Could they leap the waves? There was a quick talk among the
guides as we slipped along, undecided which way to turn. Then the
question seemed to settle itself, as most of these woodland questions
do, as if some silent force of Nature had the casting-vote. "Sautez,
sautez!" cried Ferdinand, "envoyez au large!" In a moment we were
sliding down the smooth back of the rapid, directly toward the first big
wave. The rocky shore went by us like a dream; we could feel the motion
of the earth whirling around with us. The crest of the billow in front
curled above the bow of the canoe. "Arret', arret', doucement!" A swift
stroke of the paddle checked the canoe, quivering and prancing like
a horse suddenly reined in. The wave ahead, as if surprised, sank and
flattened for a second. The canoe leaped through the edge of it, swerved
to one side, and ran gayly down along the fringe of the line of billows,
into quieter water.

Every one feels the exhilaration of such a descent. I know a lady who
almost cried with fright when she went down her first rapid, but before
the voyage was ended she was saying:--

"Count that day lost whose low, descending sun
Sees no fall leaped, no foaming rapid run."

It takes a touch of danger to bring out the joy of life.

Our guides began to shout, and joke each other, and praise their canoes.

"You grazed that villain rock at the