"I wish I were going with you; good-bye and Godspeed!" shouted
Mackenzie, as we pushed the canoe into deep water and dipped our
paddles into the current. In a moment he and the grave men that
stood with him were lost to view. Up through the strait into the
Little Lake we paddled, thence to the rapid where the waters of
Grand Lake pour out. With one end of a tracking line, Hubbard
sprang into the shallow water near the shore below the swift-
running stream, and with the other end fastened to the bow of the
canoe, pulled it through the rapid. A "planter's" family in a
cabin near by watched us wonderingly.

Then we were in Grand Lake. Hubbard remarked that it looked like
Lake George, save that the hills were lower. For a few miles above
its outlet the shores on both sides of the lake are low. Then on
the south come bluffs that rise, stern and grand in their nudity,
almost perpendicularly from the deep, clear water, while on the
north come lower hills, the most part wooded, that retreat more
gently from the rocky shore. Heading for the extreme upper of the
lake, where Low's map and the natives had led us to expect we
should find the Northwest or Nascaupee River, we paddled along the
north shore to a point where we stopped among the rocks for a
luncheon of flapjacks and syrup.

We were away without waste of time, paddling diagonally across the
lake to the south shore. The fleecy clouds had now thickened, and a
few drops of rain had fallen. In our course across the lake we
passed Cape Corbeau (Raven), but were so far out that the mouth of
the river of that name, which is just east of it, escaped our
attention. Cape Corbeau, it had been named by a French missionary,