high tides of August come its magnitude is surprising.

Then we understand why the hay-ricks (which we wickedly tell our friends
from the "Hub" resemble gigantic loaves of Boston brown bread) are on
stilts, for, regardless of dikes or boundaries, this tortuous creek
spreads over its whole valley, as if in emulation of the greater river
of which it is a tributary. Haliburton says that for a time this was
called Allan's River, and the greater one was named the Dauphin; but we
are glad that the old French name was restored to the serpentine creek,
as it is so much better suited to its peculiar character.

The great event of the week is the arrival of the Boston steamer, when
all the town turns out and wends its way to the wharves.

The peculiar rise of the tide (thirty feet) is here plainly shown, as
one week the passengers step off from the very roof of the saloon, and
next time she comes in they disembark from the lowest gangway possible
and climb the long ascent of slippery planks to the level above.

The river shows curious currents and counter-currents, as bits of
_débris_ are hurrying upward in the middle of the stream, while similar
flotsam and jetsam rush away as rapidly down stream along both shores.

The queer old tub of a ferry boat, with its triangular wings spreading
at the sides,--used as guards and "gang planks",--is a curiosity, as it
zigzags across the powerful current to the village on the opposite
shore.

But "the ferryman's slim, the ferryman's young, and he's just a soft
twang in the turn of his tongue"; and in our frequent trips across he