operators of a summer resort. Arriving at “the Sweet Shire of

Cardigan” about twilight just below R. J. MacDonald’s store, I had an interesting chat with some of my MacDonald friends and then

bedded down for the night under the canoe.

Next morning (Monday, August 13th) at nine o’clock I “hoisted sail” and with a fair west wind behind me sped down the river reaching and crossing Boughton Island Bar in two hours. Downriver, sail taut and the paddle driving, Tota fairly flew along, the green water rushing past alongside — 13 miles in two hours, the fastest time during my whole voyage. Several times I would reverse the paddle as the blade would tend to bend like a spoon.

From Boughton Bar we passed by Johnston’s Lobster factory, around Bruce Point, and stopped ashore at Launching Run to take time out for lunch. Towards evening a heavy rain-storm came on. As we worked along the outside of the mile-long bar across from Annandale, the rain and wind blowing down the Grand River across the bar seemed of no great force due to our sheltered position. As we drew nearer to the end of the bar and the mouth of the river, the rain came harder and the sky became darker every minute, the only visible object a high light straight ahead.

Suddenly the canoe shot out past the tip of the sand-bar into the open channel. Tota promptly keeled over, so much so that had I not quickly shifted my weight to the windward side, we should have capsized. We crossed the quarter-mile gap at incredible speed all the while the black rain pouring down all over attd all around us. Finally, as we came into the shelter of Annandale Wharf I was able to start breathing again and my nerves to “let go”. Shortly the canoe grounded just below a high cliff barely discernible on top of which our guiding light still shone. On the crossing poor Bozo must have been as scared as l, but she was a good sailor and, at my command, did not jump around but lay still on the bottom of the canoe.

After securing the canoe, I started with Bozo up over the cliff where I found a house near the light which, 1 now realized, was a range light. At the house we were very kindly received by the light- keeper Neil Morrison and his family. That night I slept like a log on a thick mattress filled with clean straw. No man ever slept better. Mrs. Morrison told me that the bed, a four-poster, had been brought out from Scotland by an immigrant, one of her ancestors (a

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