THE WING-FOOTED 



good leagues behind us, we labour up 

 the Grande Passe, and a thousand feet 

 nearer the hurrying clouds get a last 

 glimpse of the St. Lawrence, the late 

 afternoon sun is casting shadows over 

 the fertile valley of the Gouffre. A few 

 miles of deeply rutted road carry us by 

 the immense granite cliffs where eagles 

 nest undisturbed, and the steep defile of 

 the second pass gives the Coq more stiff 

 collar-work, even with his passengers 

 afoot. The summit attained, walking is 

 still to be preferred to driving in the 

 rolling and pitching buckboard, so do 

 we trudge through the sloughs of the 

 Cabane a Yves, and past the four cross- 

 ings of the Ruisseau des Chasseurs, 

 judging ourselves fortunate when we 

 sink only to the ankle. 



If there be a horse in the province of 

 Quebec competent to conduct four 

 wheels intelligently and discreetly over 

 such a track, it is our long-legged, un- 

 comely gray, but the stream of admoni- 



75 



