THE LOWER ST. LATVREIfCE. 165 



" Halloa there, you Frenchman ! Reveillez vous. Pour- 

 qnoi permittez vous le feu sortir? "Wake up there, and 

 make a fire ! This is not the thing at all." 



"Ah! sacre mon Dieu! pardon, gentlemen. Le feu 11 a 

 mort! I shall make one leetle blaze tout de suite. Cost 

 vrai, it ees not de ting." 



"While the Frenchman replenishes the fire, one shivering 

 comrade, shuffles down to the river for "water, and the other 

 succeeds m finding a bottle of hrandy and the sugar. "With 

 those ingredients, when the water has come to a boil, a 

 revivifying draught is concocted. The aching limbs are 

 limbered out by the now glowing flames. Pipes are filled 

 and smoked, half drowsing, while the shadows dance alfresco 

 upon the forest background. Yet the night is so cold, that 

 whjen we withdraw again to the shelter of the camp, we 

 venture to build a fire inside, Indian fashion ; for the hut is 

 large. Then, once more we compose ourselves, and sweet 

 sleep quickly brings oblivion. Doubtless the increasing heat 

 of the apartment and the warmth-diffusing liquor combine to 

 make that slumber intensely sound. Certain, it is not until a 

 crackling noise and stifling sensation arouse us, that we wake 

 to find the shanty all aflame, and its birch-bark cover curl- 

 ing and shrivehng in the heat and smoke ! "With a quick- 

 ness in emergency which experience begets, we seize the 

 poles of the hut and by main force pull the framework to 

 pieces, and drag the burning mass asunder, yet not in time 

 to save the entire contents. Only a portion of our effects 

 are saved. But, for these and our lives we are grateful. 



Such was one httle episode of our trip to the Jacques 

 Cartier. 



Hastily dispatching breakfast, we morahzed upon the 

 ncissitudes of forest-life, and regarding with some feelings 

 of loneliness our now desolate camp-ground, we turned our 

 backs upon the smouldering ruins and quickly paddled down 

 the river. 



