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 
bark of the great river, which is blocked at 
the mouth by a sand-bar extending half way 
57 
