the naked eye. The famous rapids of the St. Lawrence had been a severe
disappointment, but here were rapids worthy of the name. Lake Superior was
visibly above us, Lake Huron visibly below, and between ran the turbulent
little stream which of course must be flowing into Lake Huron, though we
could not have told merely by looking at it which way the current ran.

"Would we go up the rapids?" We had heard of going down the rapids, but in
reality the most wonderful part of the performance is going up. Not only
is the current fearfully swift, even close to the shore as it is necessary
to keep, but the water seems to be only a few inches deep, and the rocks
are as thick as plums in a Christmas pudding. Yet two Indians, standing
erect, one in the bow and one in the stern of the canoe, pole you up the
stream against these terrible odds as easily and surely as a Harvard
oarsman might row you across Seneca Lake. Then they pause for a moment.

"How will you have it going down? Rough?" they ask.

"Rough," we answer, wondering what in the world they can mean by speaking
as if they were the autocrats of wind and current.

But it seems there are two channels,--one near shore for the timid, and
one in mid-stream. We were not to be betrayed into any exhibition of
timidity after that first hesitating question, "Do you know the rapids
well? How many times have you taken people down?" To which the quiet reply
had been, "Three times a day, lady, for twenty years." Twenty thousand
times, by rough calculation!

So we went over in mid-stream, and were not sorry,--receiving as we
stepped ashore what is probably a part of every programme, the compliment
of being "the bravest lady that ever went over the falls."