OLD MURRAY BAY 



paddling song. Never before was he 

 coaxed into singing, never since; nor is the 

 wild chant allowed to finish. We are 

 flying down an incline where the stream 

 hisses through banks of gravel, and makes 

 an abrupt turn. Swinging round the cor- 

 ner, a large red pine has fallen close ahead, 

 almost across the river, which boils against 

 it and through the jagged ends of broken 

 branches. I hear Nicolas' C'est fini, and 

 make ready to jump clear when we touch, 

 but his paddle clatters on the gunwale, he 

 springs to his feet and drives the pole 

 through a sheer five feet of water. Strength 

 given to few, more adroitly applied by 

 none, arrests the canoe in the tearing cur- 

 rent, shuddering with the strain. While 

 yet we hang three yards from shipwreck 

 a cry rings back to warn his old com- 

 panion, and then he edges over, foot by 

 foot, to the path of safety — every little gain 

 in such water a feat of wonder. 



'The other canoe seems to go clear, but 

 does not quite miss the last fang of the 

 broken tree; her side is ripped and she 

 sinks in the pool below. No matter! All 

 is at hand in the birch-bark's own country 

 for patching, sewing and gumming; in an 

 hour she is seaworthy again, and on her 

 49 

 4 



