TO ESQUIMAUX POINT 



enough, but crashes through the single rail 

 over the bank down down down 

 like a plongeur into the Magpie River. 



The good man relieved of the pursuit of this 

 ravenous beast, but trembling like a leaf in 

 every limb, tells his beads and gives thanks to 

 the bon Dieu. Across the bridge he goes, but 

 he is suddenly struck stiff with horror at the re- 

 appearance of the ox, who, having arisen from 

 his plunge, like a veritable plongeur that he is, 

 has swum the river and clambered out on the 

 rocks of the opposite shore. 



At this point in the story the trader, like a 

 good raconteur, suddenly ceased his tale with 

 arms wide spread and an expression of horror 

 in his face. None of us asked what happened 

 next, but he confidentially assured me on the 

 following day that the story was entirely and 

 exactly true. 



The St. John River,, about a hundred miles 

 from Seven Islands, is the next stopping point, 

 and, while we anchored, boats with red sails 

 came out to greet us. The town is built on 

 the lowest of three sandy terraces on the right 

 bank of the great river, which is blocked at 

 the mouth by a sand-bar extending half way 



57 



