might and fury the frantic river hisses and roars and lashes it. Yet
it never moves--it only frowns destruction upon all that dares approach
it.

How the bowman is working! See his paddle bend! With lightning
movements he jabs his great paddle deep into the water and close under
the left side of the bow; then with a mighty heave he lifts her head
around. The great canoe swings as though upon a pivot; for is not the
steersman doing exactly the very opposite at this precise moment? We
sheer off. But the next instant the paddles are working on the
opposite sides, for the bowman sees signs of a water-covered rock not
three yards from the very bow. With a wild lunge he strives to lift
the bow around; but the paddle snaps like a rotten twig. Instantly he
grabs for another, and a grating sound runs the length of the heaving
bottom. The next moment he is working the new paddle. A little water
is coming in but she is running true. The rocks now grow fewer, but
still there is another pitch ahead. Again the bow dips as we rush down
the incline. Spray rises in clouds that drench us to the skin as we
plunge through the "great swell" and then shoot out among a multitude
of tumbling billows that threaten to engulf us. The canoe rides upon
the backs of the "white horses" and we rise and fall, rise and fall, as
they fight beneath us. At last we leave their wild arena, and,
entering calmer water, paddle away to the end of the portage trail.

One morning, soon after sunrise, the brigade came to the end of its
journey as it rounded a point and headed for a smoking steamboat that
rested upon a shimmering lake; and so entirely did the rising mist
envelop the craft that it suggested the silhouette of a distant
mountain in volcanic eruption. Then the canoes, each in turn, lay
alongside the steamer; the fur packs were loaded aboard, and thence by