ut that myself."

"Well, in the early part of last August, my wife and I decided to visit
some friends, who reside a few miles up the River Jean, on the opposite
side of the straits, I suppose about twenty miles from here. We could
reach no port by steamer that was nearer our destination than Pictou,
and there remained a long, tedious stage ride when we got there. I
concluded to take a boat, and procured of Frank Stanley a little
row-boat, with a spritsail for running before the wind; for I intended
to choose my own time for crossing. We set out from C. early one
morning, and arrived in the afternoon after a very pleasant passage, and
we enjoyed our visit to that section very much.

"After waiting a day or two for a fair wind down the river, we set sail,
but, owing to the lightness of the breeze, were nearly all the afternoon
in getting down. Still, on reaching the harbor, I determined to proceed,
as the lights on both shores could be plainly seen, and I did not like
to lose a favorable wind.

"Accordingly I put boldly out, heading for Point Prime Light, although
my mind misgave me a little as I got clear of the lee of the land; for
the sea rose rapidly, and a tremendous breeze, each moment growing
stronger, carried us on with frightful rapidity. When we were about half
way across, the wind was blowing a gale, and it was only for a moment,
while on the crest of the waves, that I could see the light for which I
was steering.

"The spray was breaking over us so that my wife had to bale continually
to keep our craft free, and I dared not leave the helm to lessen sail,
although I expected that each slat of the canvas, as we took the wind on
the crest of a wave, would run us under, or carry away the mast, and
leave us at the mercy of the waves.

"On we went before the breeze, darting down into the hollow between two
seas, toiling heavily up the next wave, with death apparently close
behind on the crests of two or three pursuing breakers, and then, with a
puff which made every timber and plank quiver, the gale would almost
lift us through a breaking wall of white foam, and, with more or less of
the sea aboard, away we would go down the incline, a plaything of a
boat, with a frightened little man at the tiller, and a little woman
baling incessantly, with nerves that never gave way for a moment in our
long struggle for life.

"I felt that if I could get that sprit down we were safe; but my wife
dared not attempt it, and