a boat should be blown bodily away. But let us suppose that, for
the sake of argument, something of the kind had happened, and that our
boat was damaged beyond repair, or lost; could we not, think you,
fabricate a couple of birch-bark canoes in a country where such splendid
birch-trees grow, and with these proceed to our destination?"

"Very true," said I, "that did not occur to me; but," I continued,
waxing argumentative, "what if there had been no birch-trees in this
part of the country?"

"Why then, Max, there would be nothing to prevent our placing most of
our goods _en cache_, construct a small portable raft for crossing
streams, and start off each man with a small load for Big Otter's home,
at which we should arrive in a week or two, and there set about the
erection of huts to shelter us, begin a fishery, and remain until winter
should set fast the lakes and rivers, cover the land with snow, and thus
enable us to go back for our goods, and bring them forward on sledges,
with aid, perhaps, from the red-men."

"True, true, Lumley, that might be done."

"Or," continued my friend, "we might stay where the disaster overtook
us, remain till winter, and send Big Otter on to tell his people that we
were coming. When one plan fails, you know, all you've got to do is to
try another. There is only one sort of accident that might cause us a
deal of trouble, and some loss--and that is, our boat getting smashed
and upset in a rapid, and our goods scattered. Even in that case we
might recover much of what could swim, but lead and iron would be lost,
and powder damaged. However we won't anticipate evil. Look! there is a
sight that ought to banish all forebodings from our minds."

He pointed as he spoke to an opening ahead of us, which revealed a
beautiful little lake, whose unruffled surface was studded with
picturesque bush-clad islets. Water-fowl of many kinds were swimming
about on its surface, or skimming swiftly over it. It seemed so
peaceful that I was led to think of it as a miniature paradise.

"Come, Henri, chante, sing," cried Lumley, with a touch of enthusiasm in
eye and tone.

Our carpenter, Coppet, was by general consent our leading singer. He
possessed a sweet tenor voice, and always responded to a call with a
willingness that went far to counteract the lugubrious aspect of his
visage. On this occasion he at once struck up the canoe-song, "_A la
claire fontaine_," which, besides being plaintive and