T/ie Lund of the U'inanis/if 



explains, " c'est-a-dire, mauvaise riviere ; 

 c'est bien difficile d'ascendre." 



Chicoutimi is but six miles away now, 

 and we are entering Les Terres Rompues. 

 One rapid only lies before us, and that 

 not a difficult one, although the faithful 

 Joseph points out the place where " un 

 homme, une creature et un enfant sont 

 noyes." Keeping toward the northern 

 bank we presently find the gate in the 

 great boom which bars the river, and let 

 ourselves through, and head across for Chi- 

 coutimi, which, with her cathedral, and 

 all the pride of " a city that is set on a 

 hill," looks patronizingly down upon her 

 prosperous faubourg of lumber-mills. As 

 we cross, we are leaving behind us, on the 

 opposite bluff, Ste. Anne de Saguenay, her 

 spire and her roofs bright in the low-down 

 sun. A moment's delay to hail a passing 

 canoe and to give a message to its occupant 

 - young, black-eyed, and well-looking, 

 but already counted the most skilful of 

 Decharge canoemen and our poem in 

 birch-bark passes between lumber-schoon- 

 ers and steam-tugs, and our canoe journey 

 is done. 



The rest of the river --if that great 

 canon full of ebbing and flowing water can 

 be called a river is known to all who 



Si 



