56 THE STORY OF THE TRAPPER 



of a beaver-skin. As for Pierre, give him a canoe 

 eliding past wooded banks with a throb of the keel to 

 the current and the whistle of wild-fowl overhead; 

 clear sky above with a feathering of wind clouds, clear 

 sky below with a feathering of wind clouds, and the 

 canoe between like a bird at poise. Sometimes a fair 

 wind livens the pace ; for the voyageurs hoist a blanket 

 sail, and the canoe skims before the breeze like a sea- 

 gull. 



Where the stream gathers force and whirls for 

 ward in sharp eddies and racing leaps each voyageur 

 knows what to expect. No man asks questions. The 

 bowman stands up with his eyes to the fore and steel- 

 shod pole ready. Every eye is on that pole. Presently 

 comes a roar, and the green banks begin to race. The 

 canoe no longer glides. It vaults springs bounds, 

 with a shiver of live waters under the keel and a buoy 

 ant rise to her prow that mounts the crest of each 

 wave fast as wave pursues wave. A fanged rock thrusts 

 up in mid-stream. One deft push of the pole. Each 

 paddler takes the cue; and the canoe shoots past the 

 danger straight as an arrow, righting herself to a new 

 course by another lightning sweep of the pole and 

 paddles. 



But the waters gather as if to throw themselves for 

 ward. The roar becomes a crash. As if moved by one 

 mind the paddlers brace back. The lightened bow lifts. 

 A white dash of spray. She mounts as she plunges; 

 and the voyageurs are whirling down-stream below a 

 small waterfall. Not a word is spoken to indicate that 

 it is anything unusual to sauter Us rapides, as the voy 

 ageurs say. The men are soaked. Now, perhaps, some 

 one laughs; for Jean, or Ba tiste, or the dandy of the 



