The evening of the day that witnessed my arrival at Fort Francis saw also my departure from it; and before the sun had set I was already far down the Rainy River.  But I was no longer the solitary white man; and no longer the camp-fire had around it the swarthy faces of the Swampies.  The woods were noisy with many tongues; the night was bright with the glare of many fires.  The Indians, frightened by such a concourse of braves, had fled into the woods, and the roofless poles of their wigwams alone marked the camping-places where but the evening before I had seen the red man monarch of all he surveyed.  The word had gone forth from the commander to push on with all speed for Red River, and I was now with the advanced portion of the 60th Rifles en route for the Lake of the Woods.  Of my old friends the Swampies only one remained with me, the others had been kept at Fort Francis to be distributed amongst the various brigades of boats as guides to the Lake of the Woods and Winnipeg River; even Thomas Hope had got a promise of a brigade-in the mean time pork was abundant; and between pride and pork what more could even Hope desire?

In two days we entered the Lake of the Woods, and hoisting sail stood out across the waters.  Never before had these lonely islands witnessed such a sight as they now beheld.  Seventeen large boats close hauled to a splendid breeze swept in a great scattered mass through the high running seas, dashing the foam from their bows as they dipped and rose under their large lug-sails.  Samuel Henderson led the way, proud of his new position, and looked upon by the soldiers of his boat as the very acme of an Indian.  How the poor fellows enjoyed that day! no oar, no portage no galling weight over rocky ledges, nothing but a grand day’s racing over the immense lake.  They smoked-all day, balancing themselves on the weather-side to steadv the boats as they keeled over into the heavy seas.  I think they would have-given even Mr. Riel that day a pipeful of tobacco; but Heaven help him if they:  had caught him two days later on the portages of the Winnipeg! he would have had a hard time of it.

There has been some Hungarian poet, I think, who has found a theme for his genius in the glories of the private soldier.  He had been a soldier himself, and he knew the wealth of the mine hidden in the unknown and unthought of Rank and File.  It is a pity that the knowledge of that wealth should not be more widely circulated.

Who are the Rank and File?  They are the poor wild birds whose country has cast them off, and who repay her by offering their lives for her glory; the men who take the shilling, who drink, who drill, who march to music, who fill the graveyards of Asia; the men who stand sentry at the gates of world-famous fortresses, who are old when their elder brothers are still young, who are bronzed and burned by fierce suns, who sail over seas packed in great masses, who watch at night over lonely magazines, who shout, “Who