a pair of gulls who had come up from the sea to spend
the summer, and a large flock of wild ducks, which the guides call
"Betseys," as if they were all of the gentler sex. In such a big family
of girls we supposed that a few would not be missed, and Damon bagged
two of the tenderest for our supper.

In the still water at the mouth of the Riviere Mistook, just above the
Rapide aux Cedres, we went ashore on a level wooded bank to make our
first camp and cook our dinner. Let me try to sketch our men as they are
busied about the fire.

They are all French Canadians of unmixed blood, descendants of the men
who came to New France with Samuel de Champlain, that incomparable old
woodsman and life-long lover of the wilderness. Ferdinand Larouche
is our chef--there must be a head in every party for the sake of
harmony--and his assistant is his brother Francois. Ferdinand is a
stocky little fellow, a "sawed off" man, not more than five feet two
inches tall, but every inch of him is pure vim. He can carry a big canoe
or a hundred-weight of camp stuff over a mile portage without stopping
to take breath. He is a capital canoe-man, with prudence enough to
balance his courage, and a fair cook, with plenty of that quality which
is wanting in the ordinary cook of commerce--good humour. Always joking,
whistling, singing, he brings the atmosphere of a perpetual holiday
along with him. His weather-worn coat covers a heart full of music. He
has two talents which make him a marked man among his comrades. He plays
the fiddle to the delight of all the balls and weddings through the
country-side; and he speaks English to the admiration and envy of
the other guides. But like all men of genius he is modest about his
accomplishments. "H'I not spik good h'English--h'only for camp--fishin',
cookin', dhe voyage--h'all dhose t'ings." The aspirates puzzle him. He
can get though a slash of fallen timber more easily than a sentence full
of "this" and "that." Sometimes he expresses his meaning queerly. He
was telling me once about his farm, "not far off here, in dhe Riviere au
Cochon, river of dhe pig, you call 'im. H'I am a widow, got five sons,
t'ree of dhem are girls." But he usually ends by falling back into
French, which, he assures you, you speak to perfection, "much better
than the Canadians; the French of Paris in short--M'sieu' has been in
Paris?" Such courtesy is born in the blood, and is irresistible. You
cannot help returning the compliment an