ON A CANADIAN RIVER.

A young man and his sister have kept this ferry several years, during
which they have performed many acts of heroic benevolence, and have
rescued numbers of their fellow creatures from a watery grave. One of
these had so much of perilous adventure in it, that I shall make no
apology for giving some account of it, the more especially as I was
myself one of the trembling and anxious spectators of the whole scene.

A raft of timber, on its way down the river to the nearest port, was
dashed to pieces by the violence of the rapids. There was the usual
number of men upon it, all of whom, except two, were fortunate enough to
get upon a few logs, which kept together, and were comparatively safe,
while their two poor comrades, were helplessly contending with the
tumbling waves, almost within reach of them, but without their being
able to afford them the slightest assistance. After a minute or two, and
when one more would have been their last, a long oar or sweep,
belonging to the wretched raft, came floating by. They instantly seized
it, and held on till they were carried down more than a mile, loudly
calling for help as they went along; but what aid could we render them?
No craft, none, at least, which were on the banks of the river, could
live in such a boiling torrent as that; for it was during one of the
high spring freshets. But the ferryman was of a different opinion, and
could not brook the thought of their dying before his eyes without his
making a single effort to save them. "How could I stand idly looking
on," he said to me afterward, "with a tough ash oar in my hand, and a
tight little craft at my feet, and hear their cries for help, and see
them drowned?" He determined, at all risks, to try to rescue them from
the fate which seemed to us inevitable. He could not, however, go alone,