ments of agriculture, such as wooden plows shod with iron.

We passed several parties of men, women, and children from Quebec
picnicking in the "bush." Here it was little more than a "bush;" but
while in Canada we never heard the woods designated by any other term.
I noticed, also, that when a distance of a few miles or of a fraction
of a mile is to be designated, the French Canadian does not use the
term "miles," but says it's so many acres through, or to the next
place.

This fondness for the "bush" at this season seems quite a marked
feature in the social life of the average Quebecker, and is one of the
original French traits that holds its own among them. Parties leave the
city in carts and wagons by midnight, or earlier, and drive out as far
as they can the remainder of the night, in order to pass the whole
Sunday in the woods, despite the mosquitoes and black flies. Those we
saw seemed a decent, harmless set, whose idea of a good time was to be
in the open air, and as far into the "bush" as possible.

The post-road, as the new St. John's road is also called, begins twenty
miles from Quebec at Stoneham, the farthest settlement. Five miles into
the forest upon the new road is the hamlet of La Chance, the last house
till you reach the lake, one hundred and twenty miles distant. Our
destination the first night was La Chance's; this would enable us to
reach the Jacques Cartier River, forty miles farther, where we proposed
to encamp, in the afternoon of the next day.

We were now fairly among the mountains, and the sun was well down
behind the trees when we entered upon the post-road. It proved to be a
wide, well-built highway, grass-grown, but in good condition. After an
hour's travel we began to see signs of a clearing, and about six
o'clock drew up in front of the long, low, log habitation of La Chance.
Their hearthstone was outdoor at this season, and its smoke rose
through the still atmosphere in a frail column toward the sky. The
family was gathered here and welcomed us cordially as we drew up, the
master shaking us by the hand as if we were old friends. His English
was very poor, and our French was poorer, but, with Joe as a bridge
between us, communication on a pinch was kept up. His wife could speak
no English; but her true French politeness and graciousness was a
language we could readily understand. Our supper was got ready from our
own supplies, while we sat or stood in the open air about the fire. The
c