In our case it took twenty-nine hours without sleep to descend the rapids, for we left Kajana at seven A.M. on Thursday morning, and only reached UleÅborg at mid-day on Friday. The journey is perfectly wonderful, but should only be undertaken by people blessed with strong nerves and possessed of iron constitutions. From Kajana to UleÅborg one travels down the splendid Oulu river and across the OulujÄrvi lake, joining the river again on the other side of Waala.

It was indeed an experience, in more ways than one. The first hours we spent in a small steamer, too small to carry a restaurant, so, let it be understood at once, provisions must be taken for the whole journey, unless the traveller wishes starvation to be added to his other hardships.

The OulujÄrvi lake is a terror to the tar-boats, for it is one of the largest lakes in Finland, and when there is a storm the fragile tar-boat is forced to hug the land for safety, or draw up altogether and lie-to until the storm has spent itself. Many of these small craft have been taken unawares when out in the middle of the lake, and come to signal grief accordingly. Then again, in times of dead calm, the heavily-laden boat does not even have the benefit of the quickly-running water to bear her on her way, and the three occupants of the vessel have to row the entire distance, for the steersman, no longer requiring to guide her with his enormous pole, ships it and rows at the side with one oar,—with which at the same time he guides. These steering poles are really remarkable; they are about twelve or fifteen feet long, and are simply a solid trunk of a pine tree as wide as a man's hand can grasp at the thinnest end, broadening out, and trimmed in such a way that they form a kind of flat solid paddle at the other end. The weight of these poles is overpowering, even when slipped through the ring of plaited tree branches which keeps them in place, and makes them easier to hold securely. When the cataracts are reached, even these strong poles shiver with the force of the water, and the steersman has all his work to do to combat the rushing waters; his whole bodily weight must be brought to bear in order to fight those waves and steer his craft safely through them. Every muscle is strained to meet the power of those swirling waters.

No praise we can give is too high for the skill of the pilot of the rapids, no admiration too great, for it is to that and his physical strength, to his power and calmness, to his dexterity and boundless knowledge of hidden dangers and unexpected horrors, that the safety of our lives is due, and, when we peeped occasionally at our steersman as we flew over the great rapid, where for over an hour every nerve, every fibre of his body was strung to agonising pitch, we looked and wondered. His eyes were fixed steadfastly before him, and as he flung all the weight of his body on to his pole, the whole boat trembled, but in a second obeyed his bidding and twisted whither he wished. Second, did we say? half-second, quarter-second, would be more accurate, for the bow of the boat was guided at giddy speed to within a few feet of a rock, and just as she was about to touch, twisted off again for us to ride over some crested wave, or fly down some channel which just cleared the death-trap.

By such means we zig-zagged from side to side of the river, which at the cataracts is generally nearly a quarter of a mile broad, and in the calmer stretches widens out to half a mile and more.

Speaking of pilots and their wondrous skill, in the autumn of 1912, by Imperial decrees, the Finnish Pilot Department was transferred to the Russian Ministry of Marine. So marvellous, so dexterous has been the work of the Finnish pilots for generations of inherited knowledge, that an Englishman can but quake at the advisability of such a change. Finland was so indignant that half the pilots stationed on the coast and the islands—about five hundred men—resigned en bloc. The famous pilot school at Helsingfors no longer exists.

These pilots used to mark out the ship routes every spring so cleverly that shipwrecks were rare; but in the summer of 1912 the new Russian staff made such endless mistakes and omitted so many risky channels that a great many disasters followed on the coast, though not serious ones. Luckily, the regular Finnish passenger steamers have not suffered, as they all carry their own pilots.

Strategical considerations have been officially adduced for the Russification of the Finnish pilot service; but the wisdom of this strategy may be open to doubt. In time of war the passages nearer the coast will naturally be of the greatest strategic importance, and it would seem highly unsafe to confide the navigation of war-vessels to the new Caspian pilots, who cannot possibly in a few years acquire an intimate knowledge of these extremely difficult waters. The new measure dispenses with the services of those men who, born and bred on the spot, and having the advantage of generations of traditional knowledge, can alone with safety do pilot service, especially in time of war, when guiding beacons and rock-marking poles and buoys are removed, and there is nothing to guide the navigator except that knowledge which has become second nature to the pilot trained to do service in his own home waters.

But we are digressing.

We arrived at Waala—a cluster of small houses—about 11.30, and, landing from our little steamer, found that although our tar-boat had been ordered and everything was ready owing to the kindness of the inspector of the district, who himself came to see us off, we could not get really under way before one o'clock. All the luggage had to be packed into the boat,—not much luggage, be it said, for, beyond the reach of the railways, one bag or suit-case per person is all that is possible (less is preferable), as that can go into one of the little kÄrra (carts), or can be carried by a peasant when necessary. Travelling through the interior and northern parts of Finland is roughing it indeed, and when it comes to being away from the post-stations (where carriages and horses are procurable, and generally fairly good), and sleeping in a real peasant's house, then one realises what discomfort means, and for cleanliness prefers to sit on a hard wooden chair all night for safety's sake.

At last we were, all six (for this number composed our party), seated, some on Gladstones, some on an enormous rug case, some on nothing, or something equally uncomfortable, but all of us as low down as possible, such being the inspector's orders, as our weight steadied the boat, and, being below the water's level, kept us from getting wet from the spray, although we found, by experience, it did not prevent our shipping whole seas, and getting thoroughly soaked.

"The wind is against you," remarked the inspector, "which is a pity, as it will occupy much longer time, and you will get more wet, but by three A.M. (fourteen hours) you ought to reach Muhos, where you can snatch a few hours' sleep before going on in the little steamer that will take you down the last stretch of the river to UleÅborg."

It was bad enough, in theory, to sit fourteen hours within the cramped precincts of a tar-boat with one's knees up to one's chin, like an Eastern mummy, but it was nothing to what in practice we really endured. However, we luckily cannot foresee the future, and with light hearts, under a blazing sun, we started, a man at the stern to steer, a woman and a boy in the bow to row, and ourselves and our goods securely stowed away—packed almost as closely as herrings in a barrel.

Directly after leaving Waala, within a few minutes in fact, we came to the Niska Koski rapid. Six miles at flying speed; six miles tearing over huge waves at break-neck pace; six miles with a new experience every second; six miles feeling that every turn, every moment must be our last.

No one could dream of the excitements of speeding six miles in such a long fragile craft, in which we crouched so low our faces were almost level with the seething surface of the rapid. Turning here and twisting there between rocks or piled-up walls of stone, absolutely seeing and feeling the drop of the water, as one bounded over a fall—such an experience cannot be described. As those massive waves struck the boat, and threw volumes of water into our laps, we felt inclined to shriek at the speed at which we were flying. Wildly we were tearing past the banks, when, lo!—what was that? A broken tar-boat; a mere scattered mass of wooden beams, which only a few hours before had been a boat like our own.

In spite of the marvellous dexterity of the pilots, accidents happen sometimes; and that very morning, the wind being strongly against the boats descending, a steersman venturing a little too near a hidden rock, his frail craft was instantly shattered to pieces. The tar-barrels, bubbling over the water like Indian corn over a fire, were picked up many miles below; but, as the accident happened near the water's edge, the crew were luckily saved.

That journey was a marvellous experience; one of the most exciting and interesting of the writer's life; not only did it represent a wonderful force of nature, but an example of what skill and a cool head can do; for what man without both could steer a boat through such rapids—such cataracts? Those rapids at Montreal seemed far less imposing to me afterwards.

At times the waves looked as if they were really returning upon us, yet in reality we were going with the stream, but the rocks below made them curl back again. Along the stream several crews were toiling and straining at their towing ropes to get their empty boats to Kajana. Oh, what work in that heat! No wonder they all dreaded that return journey. Toiling along the bank were the wretched men and women making their way back towards Russia. The strangely uneven stone wall along which they pulled their tar-boat looked as if it would cut their poor bare feet to pieces. Two generally tugged at the rope, a third keeping the boat off the wall by means of a long pole; and for a fortnight or three weeks they tugged and pulled their empty boat, or in calmer stretches sailed or rowed back the route along which we were now flying at such lightning speed.

Then came two hours of calm rowing along a beautiful stretch of river, where rocks and pine-trees rose straight from the water's edge, and queer little gray houses denoted peasants' homesteads, peeping out among the almost yellow rye-fields, or the newly gathered hay crops. Small black and white curly sheep gambolled in the meadows—those very sheep whose coats are so famous as Kajana Lambs, rivalling even Russian Astrakhan.

Imagine a fall of two hundred feet of water in a long, thin, fragile boat; yet such is possible at PyhÄkoski, another of the rapids, during a stretch of cataract about thirteen miles long—as an average, these wondrous falls are about a quarter of a mile broad, sometimes more, sometimes less. They are indeed most truly marvellous.

It was a perfect evening as we neared PyhÄkoski. The wind had fallen, and when, after passing a rapid, we drew up by the bank to enjoy our evening meal, the sun at 9.30 was just beginning its long set. We had left Waala at 1.30, and been travelling in the boat cramped by the position all the time, so were beginning to feel the pleasant pangs of hunger. With a pine wood behind us, where bilberries, just ripening among the ferns, covered the ground, we six friends—four Finlanders and two English—made a very happy party. Oh, the joy of stretching our limbs and standing erect once more. We cooked our tea by the aid of a spirit-lamp, ate hard-boiled eggs and some most delicious cold trout, devoured whole loaves of white bread and butter, and were feeling as happy as possible—when suddenly the glorious golden orb shining through the skies of evening, was reflected in flaming colour nearer home, for, lo! the lamp in the tea-basket exploded with a terrific bang and a tongue of flame which brought us all to our feet in an instant. Here was a calamity to occur on such a dry night, in a long rainless summer, and in a pine forest, too, where if the trees once ignited, flames might spread for miles and miles, causing incalculable damage. We all knew the danger, and each prepared to assist in putting out the fire. Grandpapa, with the agility of a cat, seized the burning basket and threw it and its contents bodily into the river—great was the frizzle as it touched the water, and greater the noise as plates and spoons clattered into the stream. They were of little value in comparison to the prevention of a forest fire.

Poor man, he was wet to his knees standing in the water, and he looked almost as if he had been taking a mud bath by the time he succeeded in rescuing what was possible of our crockery and plate. But, undoubtedly, he prevented much serious damage of valuable property by his prompt action. The remainder of our meal was lost, and our delightful basket, that had travelled in many lands, destroyed. It had never failed before—but we afterwards unravelled the mystery. The Apothek, whom we asked to supply us with some methylated spirit, not understanding our request, had substituted something which did not suit the lamp.

"All's well that ends well," however, so we will say no more about his mistake, save that we lost our second cup of tea, and went hungry to bed.

Never, never did any one behold more wonderful reflections than were to be seen that night on the UleÅ river. As the empty boats passed up a quiet reach sufficiently shallow to permit of punting, the reflections of the coloured shirts and poles, of the old brown boats and the cheery faces on board, were as distinct in the water as the things themselves. Every blade of grass found its double in that mirror-like stream, every rock appeared darker and larger below than it did above the water; but our admiration was distracted by mosquitoes,—when we drew up at a small torp to take up a fresh pilot, who was to steer us safely over the famous PyhÄkoski rapids. By this time it was 10.30 on an August night, and the sun just above the pine tops, which seemed striving to soar high enough to warm themselves in its glorious rich colourings, and we feared it might be too late, and the mist too dense, to attempt such a dangerous passage. Half a dozen pilots assembled on the bank—their day's work being over—declared it was perfectly safe, as safe at least as it ever can be, therefore, after shipping our man, away we rowed—the river having broadened again to three-quarters of a mile, so that it looked like a lake.

A small child offered us a little wooden tub of luscious yellow berries, suomuurain (Finnish), Hjortron (Swedish), for a mark—the same would have cost about eight marks at Helsingfors—which we gladly bought and ate as we drifted along. Those delicious northern delicacies, with a taste of the pine-tree, greatly refreshed us. We had made up our minds early in the day, that as we could not take more than four or five hours' rest, to sleep on the bank, and make a large fire to keep away the mosquitoes. The weather was all that could be wished; indeed, the heat of the day had been so great we had all sat with white pocket-handkerchiefs hanging from under our hats and down our necks to keep off the blazing sun, no parasols being possible when correct steering meant life or death. In fact, we had decided to manage the best sort of "camp out" we could with a coat each and a couple of Scotch plaid rugs among us all. The prospect seemed more pleasant than a one or two-roomed torp shared with the torppari's family; for we had suffered so much in strange beds already, and had woefully regretted many times not having brought hammocks, which we might have slung out of doors on those splendid June and July nights, and slept in peace under the daylight canopy of heaven. Accordingly, a camp on the bank had been voted and passed by unanimous acclamation.

No artist's brush could reproduce such a scene. In the foreground a roaring seething mass of water denoted strength and power, beyond lay a strange hazy mist, like a soft gauze film, rising in the sudden chill of evening from the warmed water, and the whole landscape was rendered more weird and unreal in places by the wild white spray which ascended, as the waves lapped some hidden or visible rock lying right across our course. Farther on, the river was bordered by pine and fir-trees, through the stems of which the departing sun shone, glinting here and there upon the bark; the warm shades of the sky dappled with red and yellow, painted by a Mighty Hand, were well in keeping with the "Holy Stream," as this rapid is called by the peasants living along its shores.

A mystic scene of wondrous beauty; more and more the vapours rose, until a great soft barrier seemed erected before us, almost as high as the trees; dense at their roots, tapering away to indistinctness at their tops, where the sunset glow lay warm and bright upon their prickly branches.

It reminded one of glorious evenings in Switzerland, where snow-clad peaks soar above the clouds, their majestic heads rising as it were from nothingness. That night on the UleÅ river, this strong, strange, misty fog was very remarkable—such a contrast to the intense heat of the day, so great a contrast to the marvellous clearness which had preceded it, so mystic after the photographic distinctness of a few hours before.

A shriek from our steersman, and we found we were flying madly towards a sort of wooden pier; we held our breath, it seemed so close. In the mist we were almost upon it before we saw our danger; but when the pilot shouted, the oarsmen instantly shipped. Even when going through the rapids it should be explained that two men in the bows keep rowing continuously to help to steady the boat; but on the occasion in question, just when the agony point was reached, they lifted their oars, and we swung round a corner—not to sudden death as we fully expected, but into a comparatively calm stretch of water; where, lo! we found before us a white bank. It was vapour, mist, fog, what you will; but a cold evening, after a day of intense heat, had clothed the river in thick white clouds, impenetrable to the sight—cold, clammy, terrifying to a stranger.

"It is impossible," exclaimed the oarsman to our Finnish-speaking friends; "I thought I could get you to Muhos to-night, but until that fog lifts we can go no farther, it is not safe. I can do no more. It would mean death."

Here was a prospect. We had been eleven hours in the boat, for it was now midnight. We had been grilled all day and burnt with the heat, and now we were perished with wet from the wash of the waves, and cold from the damp chill air. We could not lie on the ground—no fire would ignite amid such soaking grass; what was to become of us we did not know.

We wanted experiences, and we had got them, more than we bargained for. Who could have imagined such a day would turn to such a night? Who indeed!

We all looked at each other, we all sighed. One suggested sitting as we were all bolt upright, with the boat moored to some bank—others thought a walk might prove an agreeable change—the wisest held their tongues, thought much, and said little.

We were in the middle of the stream, when, without a word of explanation, our steersman suddenly turned the bow of our frail bark right across the water, and with one rush her nose hit the bank; our speed was so great that we were all shaken from our seats, as the boat bounded off again, but the pilot was an old experienced hand, and, by some wondrous gymnastic feat, he got her side sufficiently near the bank for our boy, with a rope in his hand, to spring upon terra firma and hold us fast, without shattering our bark completely to pieces with the force of our sudden arrival.

"Is this fog usual?" we asked the pilot.

"No, very unusual, only after such intense heat as we have had to-day. If I had not landed you at this spot and now, another yard would have made doing so impossible, for this is the top of the PyhÄkoski rapid, the most dangerous of all, and it is thirteen miles long."

What a plight! Hungry, tired, miserable, cold, to be suddenly turned, whether we wished it or not, out of our only refuge and home.

"Close by here," he continued, "is a peasant's house—you must go there for some hours."

We looked; but the fog was so thick we could see nothing, therefore, without a word of remonstrance, we followed our pilot, plodding through grass soaked in moisture which reached to our knees, feeling very chilled, wet, and weary, but all trying to keep stout hearts and turn cheery faces to misfortune.

Yes, there—as if sent as a blessing from heaven—we saw a little house peeping through the fog.

We went to the door; we knocked, we knocked again. No answer. We shook the door; it was locked. We called; no one replied. We walked round the house and tried the windows—all closed, securely closed. We knocked and called louder than before. Still no answer.

What disappointment! The house was deserted. On the very eve of shelter we were baffled. Was it not enough to fill our hearts with despair? We could not go back, for we had nowhere to go; we could not sit on the bank, for that fog brooded evil. Some one suggested bursting open the door, for shelter we must have, and began rattling away with that purpose, when, lo! a voice, an awful voice called "Hulloa!"

"It is haunted," exclaimed some one; "it is a ghost, or a spirit or something. Do let us go away—what a horrible place."

"It is a phantom house," cried another, "this is not real—come, come—come away."

But the voice again called "Hulloa!"

The sound seemed nearer, and looking round we saw a white apparition standing in a darkened doorway on the other side of the garden, a figure clad in white approached through the mist; it was very ghostly. Was it hallucination, the result of exhausted minds and bodies, weak from want of food, and perished with wet and cold, or was it—yes, it was—a man.

We could have hugged that delightful Finn, our joy was so great at his appearance, key in hand ready to open the door. He did so; a delicious hot air rushed upon us—it seemed like entering a Turkish bath; but when a second door was opened the heat became even more intense, for the kitchen fire was still alight, and, as if sent as an extra blessing from above, the coffee-pot was actually on the hob, filled and ready for the peasants' early morning meal. Could anything be more providential—warmth and succour—food, beds, and comfort!

Like savages we rushed upon the coffee-pot, blew the dying embers into flame, took off our soaking shoes and stockings and placed them beside the oven, pattering barefoot over the boards; we boiled milk, which was standing near, and drank the warming, soothing beverage.

All this took time, and, while the others worked, the writer made a hurried sketch by the daylight of midnight at the "Haven of Refuge," as we christened our new abode.

The kitchen, or general living-room, was, typically Finnish. The large oven stood on one side furnished with the usual stone stairs, up which the family clamber in the winter months, in order that they may sleep on the top of the fireplace, and thus secure warmth during the night.

On the other side we noticed a hand-loom with linen in it, which the good housewife was weaving for her family. Before it was a wooden tub, wherein flour for making brown bread was standing ready to be mixed on the morrow; in front of it was a large wooden mortar, cut out of a solid tree trunk.

The light was dim, for it was midnight, and, although perfectly clear outside, the windows of the little gray house were so few and so small that but little light could gain admittance.

This but added to the weirdness of the scene. It all seemed unreal—the dim glow from the spluttering wood, freshly put on, the beautiful shining copper coffee-pot, the dark obscurity on the top of the oven. The low ceiling with its massive wooden beams, the table spread for the early breakfast—or maybe the remnants of the evening meal—with a beer-hen full of Kalja, a pot, rudely carved, filled with piimÄÄ or soured milk, and the salted fish so loved by the peasantry—there all the necessaries and luxuries of Finnish humble life were well in evidence.

The atmosphere was somewhat oppressive, for in those homesteads the windows are never opened from year's end to year's end—indeed, most of them won't open at all.

In a corner hung a kantele, the instrument to which the Finns sing their famous songs as described. This romantic chamber, with its picturesque peasant occupants and its artistic effect, merely wanted the addition of the music of Finland to complete its charm, and the farmer most kindly offered to play it for us.

In his white corduroy trousers, his coarse white shirt—the buttons of which were unfastened at the throat—and the collar loosely turned back, showing a bronzed chest, he looked like an operatic hero, the while he sat before his instrument and sang some of those wondrous songs dear to the heart of every Finn. He could hardly have been worthy of his land had he failed to be musical, born and bred in a veritable garden of song and sentiment, and the romance of our midnight arrival seemed to kindle all the imagination in this man's nature. While he played the kantele, and the pilot made coffee, the old wife was busying herself in preparing for our meal, and we were much amused at her producing a key and opening the door of a dear old bureau, from which she unearthed some wonderful china mugs, each of which was tied up in a separate pocket-handkerchief. They had various strange pictures upon them, representing scenes in America, and it turned out that they had been brought home as a gift to his parents by a son who had settled in the Far West.

We were indeed amazed when we were each handed a real silver spoon—not tin or electro—but real silver, and very quaint they were too, for the bowls were much bigger than the short handles themselves. These luxuries were in keeping with the beautiful linen on the beds, made by the old woman, and the wonderful white curtains in front of the windows, also woven by the housewife, who had likewise crocheted the lace that bordered them.

They had not those things because they were rich; for, on the contrary, they were poor. Such are the ordinary Finnish farmers' possessions; however small the homestead, linen and window curtains are generally to be found. So many comforts, coupled with the bare simplicity of the boards, the long benches for seats, and hard wooden chairs, did not lead us to expect the comic tragedy to follow.

It was one A.M., and we were all feeling quite merry again, after our warm coffee and milk, as we spread one of the rugs on the floor of the kitchen for the gentlemen—the boatmen lying on the boards—and carried our larger rug into the second room for the ladies, rolling our cloaks up into pillows, for the heat from the oven was so great that we did not want them. We lay down in our steaming clothes, which we dare not take off, to snatch a few hours' sleep, until the fog should kindly lift and enable us to get a couple of hours farther on our way to Muhos, from which place the little "cataract steamer" was to start at seven A.M. for UleÅborg.

"Good-night—not a word," the last caution added because every one wanted to say how merciful it was that we had found such delightful shelter, warmth, and even food.

Obediently we settled down and prepared to enjoy our much-needed rest. A quarter of an hour passed; first one turned uneasily, and then another; the first one sighed, and then the second; first one spoke, and then another; first one rose and went to the window, and then another. Could it be? No—yes—no! Oh the horror of it! the place was alive!

Only a quarter of an hour, yet we were bitten nearly to death, for we had made the personal acquaintance of a species of pest too horrible to name. It really was too much, we felt almost inclined to cry, the situation was so terrible. We could not go outside, for malaria and ague seemed imminent; we could not go on in our boat, for the rapids were dangerous in fog, death-traps in fact—what, oh, what were we to do?

We heard movements in the kitchen. We called. The answer said "Come in, certainly," and we entered to find our men's hair literally standing on end as they stood, rug in hand, scanning the floor, over which a perfect zoological garden was promenading as coolly as flies on a hot summer's day over a kitchen ceiling—and we had no shoes or stockings on.

There were small red animals creeping sideways, there were little brown animals hopping, there were huge fat round beasts whose death left an unpleasant odour, there were crawling gray creatures, and every one was an enormous specimen of its kind, and—yes, 'tis true—they were there in millions.

It seems loathsome to write, but it was worse to see and feel, and one must write it, for the would-be traveller among the peasant homes of Finland ought to know what he may expect. Enchanting as the country is, interesting and hospitable as are its peasantry, the Finns must learn how to deal with such a curse, or no one will dare to enter any dwelling, until the tourist club opens shelters everywhere and supplies iron beds and good mattresses, and a capable woman to look after them all and keep them clean. Even the enthusiastic fisherman could not stand such bedfellows.

Six wooden chairs were placed in two rows in the small porch, and there in the cold wet early morning air we sat as quietly as circumstances would permit, for leaving the heated rooms did not mean leaving our tormentors.

We drew our coats round our shivering forms, we blew upon our chilled fingers to get up the circulation, we stared out at blank gray fog thick with malaria and ague.

Now came a revelation. The occupants of this house never slept in it during the hot weather. Why? Simply because they could not. Even they themselves could not stand the vermin, and therefore, like many other peasants of Finland, they lie in the hayloft in the summer months for preference, and that was where our friend had come from to give us help and succour, as we fondly believed, when he appeared like a benevolent apparition in that darkened door-way.

During all our horrors the farmer slept.

"We must not tell the people of the house what has happened," said our good-hearted student; "they would be most awfully offended, and there is no knowing what they might do with defenceless travellers in such an out-of-the-way spot."

"But we must pay them," I observed.

"Of course," agreed Grandpapa, "but we need not tell them that we have sat up on these chairs surrounded by a carpet of hay all night."

"But they will know," I ventured to remark. "We cannot clear away all this hay even if we move the chairs."

"I have it," said the student, after a long pause, during which we had all sought an excuse to enable us to depart without hurting the farmer's feelings, "I will tell them that we sat up here because the ladies wanted to see the sunrise."

"Just so," we all assented, gazing abstractedly towards the west at the black wall of the opposite barn, which totally obstructed all view of any kind, even if the fog had not made a sunrise an absolutely ridiculous suggestion. But we were all so weak and worn out that if any one had suggested the sunset at three in the morning, we would still have said, "Just so."

Luckily, one forgets the disagreeables of life unless they have an amusing side as this had.

Pleasant memories linger.

First one of us got up and went to see if there was the slightest chance of the mist clearing—another peeped at a little baby calf standing alone in a shed, where it nearly had a fit with fright at the unexpected sight of visitors—another walked round the house to see if the mist was clearing on the opposite side, and then all sat down dejectedly in a row again on those hard wooden seats. At last, when it was really time to leave, with an effort of will we made up our mind to go back to the bedroom to fetch an umbrella and a hat which had been left behind. It was lighter now, and as we stooped to pick up the umbrella, that had fallen upon the ground, we started back in horror, for a perfect colony of every conceivably sized and shaped crawling beast was walking over the floor. Gathering up our skirts we flew with winged feet from that haunted chamber, but not before we had seized upon the hat, which had lain upon the table, and out of which hopped and crawled enormous—well—we left that house as noiselessly as we had come, left it surrounded in fog, without waking a soul, after putting the money upon the table in payment for our night's lodging. We left, glad to shake its dust and its etceteras from our feet; but it will ever remain in our minds as a bad dream, a dream of another world, the world of insect land, into the mysteries of which we never wish to peep again.

The most wonderful bit of our journey was yet to come. The waves were too short and jumpy for the waves of the sea, and the boat too fragile for a sea boat, yet we did not even gasp now, we had got so accustomed to drenchings, and our nerves were steadier, if over-wrought, as we danced and plunged over these waters.

For some four or five miles the PyhÄkoski rapid is narrower than those higher up the river, and sheer rocks rise straight from the water's edge and pine-trees skirt these on either side, literally growing out of the boulders without any apparent roots. It is a grand and wonderful passage waterway: and one the return boats cannot manage at all, there being no towing path, so that the oarsmen have to put their boats on carts and drive them across the land. This is not an easy job, because the length and fragility of the boats mean risk of breaking their backs. Great care is therefore required.

The mist disappeared as the sun rose, and the birds began to sing gaily as we skipped and jumped over the seething waters, till at last we saw before us a solid wall of high steep rock, rising perpendicularly seventy or eighty feet from the water. Our steersman made straight for its hard cold base, round which whirled a roaring cataract. Surely this time death stared us in the face. Had he gone to sleep or lost his senses, or was he paralysed with fatigue?

On, on, on we went; we glanced round anxiously to see what had happened to the man. He sat motionless, his eyes staring wildly before him, looking hardly human. Our hearts seemed positively to stand still as the boat's bow got within eight or nine feet of that massive wall, going straight for it, at a pace no one could believe who has not visited the spot and felt the horror of it.

We seemed on the very brink of eternity, gazing into the unknown, and as the drowning man reviews his whole life in a second, we in like manner saw our past, and peered into the future.

Our paralysing fear was fleeting; another moment and our boat's head flew to the left, our craft quivered all over, and then head first down the rapid she plunged into the swirling pool, with a feeling as if she were going up on the other side of the dancing waves.

The danger was past, and our steersman's recently grim face assumed a look of happy content.

This rock, be it explained, is the most dangerous point between Russia and the Gulf of Bothnia; many and many a tar-boat has been shattered and lives lost at this spot, as it stands at a corner of a sharp turn of the cataract, and a regular whirlpool is always seething at its base—the water forming a fall of two or three feet—swirling round and going up again like a sort of wave. There is only one possible way to pass in safety, and that is to take the boat right up to the rock and turn, when almost too late, with such dexterity that the boat descends on the falling wave at so wild a pace that she crosses the whirlpool too quickly to be sucked under, and then bounds away safely on the opposite breaker.

It was horrible—but it was grand.

We sat still and silent.