“It is the same every year.  We always like to see them come,” said Mrs. Cockburn, in her monotonous low voice of resignation.

“Yes,” replied Virginia, moving a little impatiently, for she anticipated eagerly the picturesque coming of these men of the Silent Places, and wished to savor the pleasure undistracted.

“Mi-di-mo-yay ka’-win-ni-shi-shin,” said Wishkobun, quietly.

“Ae,” replied Virginia, with a little laugh, patting the woman’s brown hand.

A shout arose.  Around the bend shot a canoe.  At once every paddle in it was raised to a perpendicular salute, then all together dashed into the water with the full strength of the voyageurs wielding them.  The canoe fairly leaped through the cloud of spray.  Another rounded the bend, another double row of paddles flashed in the sunlight, another crew, broke into a tumult of rapid exertion as they raced the last quarter mile of the long journey.  A third burst into view, a fourth, a fifth.  The silent river was alive with motion, glittering with color.  The canoes swept onward, like race-horses straining against the rider.  Now the spectators could make out plainly the boatmen.  It could be seen that they had decked themselves out for the occasion.  Their heads were bound with bright-colored fillets, their necks with gay scarves.  The paddles were adorned with gaudy woollen streamers.  New leggings, of holiday pattern, were intermittently visible on the bowsmen and steersmen as they half rose to give added force to their efforts.

At first the men sang their canoe songs, but as the swift rush of the birch-barks brought them almost to their journey’s end, they burst into wild shrieks and whoops of delight.

All at once they were close to hand.  The steersman rose to throw his entire weight on the paddle.  The canoe swung abruptly for the shore.  Those in it did not relax their exertions, but continued their vigorous strokes until within a few yards of apparent destruction.

“Hola! hola!” they cried, thrusting their paddles straight down into the water with a strong backward twist.  The stout wood bent and cracked.  The canoe stopped short and the voyageurs leaped ashore to be swallowed up in the crowd that swarmed down upon them.

The races were about equally divided, and each acted after its instincts—­the Indian greeting his people quietly, and stalking away to the privacy of his wigwam; the more volatile white catching his wife or his sweetheart or his child to his arms.  A swarm of Indian women and half-grown children set about unloading the canoes.