we left the busy scene of track-laying and struck out along the graded line for the Dalles of the St. Louis.  Up to this point the line had been fully levelled, and the walking was easy enough, but when the much-talked of Dalles were reached a complete change took place, and the toil became excessive.  The St. Louis River, which in reality forms the headwater of the great St. Lawrence, has its source in the dividing ridge between Minnesota and the British territory.  From these rugged Laurentian ridges it foams down in an impetuous torrent through wild pine-clad steeps of rock and towering precipice, apparently to force an outlet into the valley of the Mississippi, but at the Dalles it seems to have suddenly preferred to seek the cold waters of the Atlantic, and, bending its course abruptly to the east, it pours its foaming torrent into the great Lake Superior below the old French trading-post of Fond-du-Lac.  The load which I carried was not of itself a heavy one, but its weight became intolerable under the rapidly increasing heat of the sun and from the toilsome nature of the road.  The deep narrow gorges over which the railway was to be carried were yet unbridged, and we had to let ourselves down the steep yielding embankment to a depth of over 100 feet, and then clamber up the other side almost upon hands and knees-this under a sun that beat down between the hills with terrible intensity on the yellow sand of the railway cuttings!  The Ohio man carried no baggage, but the Jew was heavily laden, and soon fell behind.  For a time I kept pace with my light companion; but soon I too was obliged to lag, and about midday found myself alone in the solitudes of the Dalles.  At last there came a gorge deeper and steeper than any thing that had preceded it, and I was forced to rest long before attempting its almost perpendicular ascent.  When I did reach the top, it was to find myself thoroughly done up—­the sun came down on the side of the embankment as though it would burn the sandy soil into ashes, not a breath of air moved through the silent hills, not a leaf stirred in the forest.  My load was more than I could bear, and again I had to lie down to avoid falling down.  Only once before had I experienced a similar sensation of choking, and that was in toiling through a Burmese swamp, snipe-shooting under a midday sun.  How near that was to sun-stroke, I can’t say; but I don’t think it could be very far.  After a little time, I saw, some distance down below, smoke rising from a shanty.  I made my way with no small difficulty to the door, and found the place full of some twenty or more rough-bearded looking men sitting down to dinner.

“About played out, I guess?” said one.  “Wall, that sun is h—­; any how, come in and have a bit.  Have a drink of tea or some vinegar and water.”

They filled me out a literal dish of tea, black and boiling; and I drained the tin with a feeling of relief such as one seldom knows.  The place was lined round with bunks like the forecastle of a ship.  After a time I rose to depart and asked the man who acted as cook how much there was to pay.