And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily."

We left for Oxford Mission on the 8th of September. The distance is
over two hundred miles, through the wildest country imaginable. We did
not see a house--with the exception of those built by the beavers--from
the time we left our Mission home until we reached our destination. We
paddled through a bewildering variety of picturesque lakes, rivers, and
creeks. When no storms or fierce head-winds impeded us, we were able to
make fifty or sixty miles a day. When night overtook us, we camped on
the shore. Sometimes it was very pleasant and romantic. At other
times, when storms raged and we were drenched with the rain so
thoroughly that for days we had not a dry stitch upon us, it was not
quite so agreeable.

We generally began our day's journey very early in the morning, if the
weather was at all favourable, and paddled on as rapidly as possible,
since we knew not when head-winds might arise and stop our progress.
The Oxford route is a very diversified one. There are lakes, large and
small, across which we had to paddle. In some of them, when the wind
was favourable, our Indians improvised a sail out of one of our
blankets. Lashing it to a couple of oars, they lifted it up in the
favouring wind, and thus very rapidly did we speed on our way.

At times we were in broad beautiful rivers, and then paddling along in
little narrow creeks amidst the reeds and rushes. We passed over, or,
as they say in that country, "made" nine portages around picturesque
falls or rapids. In these portages one of the Indians carried the canoe
on his head. The other made a great load of the bedding and provisions,
all of which he carried on his back. My load consisted of the two guns,
ammunition, two kettles, the bag containing my changes of raiment, and a
package of books for the Indians we were to visit. How the Indians
could run so quickly through the portages was to me a marvel. Often the
path was but a narrow ledge of rock against the side of the great
granite cliff. At other times it was through the quaking bog or
treacherous muskeg. To them it seemed to make no difference. On they
went with their heavy loads at that swinging Indian stride which soon
left me far behind. On some of my canoe trips the portages were several
miles long, and through regions so wild that there was nothing to
indicate to me the right direction. When