Do you mean to tell me that Francois and Ferdinand and Louis and
Jean and Eugene and Iside are not true men? Do you mean to tell me
that these lumbermen who steer big logs down steep places, these
trappers who brave the death-cold grip of Winter, these canoe-men
who shout for joy as they run the foaming rapids,--do you mean to
tell me that they have no courage?

I am not ready to credit that. I want to hear what they have to say
for themselves. And in listening for that testimony certain little
remembrances come to me--not an argument--only a few sketches on
the wall. Here they are. Take them for what they are worth.

I

LA GRANDE DECHARGE

September, 1894

In one of the long stillwaters of the mighty stream that rushes
from _Lac Saint Jean_ to make the Saguenay--below the _Ile
Maligne_ and above the cataract of Chicoutimi--two birch-bark
canoes are floating quietly, descending with rhythmic strokes of
the paddle, through the luminous northern twilight.

The chief guide, Jean Morel, is a _coureur de bois_ of the old
type--broad-shouldered, red-bearded, a fearless canoeman, a good
hunter and fisherman--simple of speech and deep of heart: a good
man to trust in the rapids.