It was a very fine day, and going on further, the lazy Indians ran the canoe upon some rocks which were covered with barnacles. I told them to get out and pull her off, but they sat, one in the bow and the other in the stern, and tried to push off with their paddles. It was my own little craft, which I had painted and fixed up, and of which I took the utmost care. I could see the twisting of the canoe, and knew that it was in danger of splitting from end to end, so I jumped into the water, clambered up on the rock, seized the canoe and gave her a shoot backwards, springing into the bow as she went. My friend Russ said, “Crosby, you will kill yourself; you are a strange fellow.” “Never fear!” I replied; “but I will show those lazy fellows how to do it.” We reached Cowichan in safety, where Brother Russ took the steamer for Victoria. HERE AND THERE. In our missionary journeyings we visited the west coast of the mainland, preaching to the Seaschelts, Squamish, and other tribes as far north as Cape Mudge. On Vancouver Island our work extended from Cape Mudge, on the north, to Race Rocks, near Victoria, a distance of 160 miles. In making a visit to the former place, with a party of three men, we were again in imminent danger of being lost. We had camped for the night above Qual-a-kum and got an early start in the morning, when a south-easter blew up. It was a stiff breeze, but all was well until we got near to the south end of Denman Island, where the lighthouse now stands, when our sail, mast and all, broke away from the socket, and it was a miracle that we were not upset. Some of our experiences were humorous as well as trying. I took passage one day with Chief Tsil-ka-mut, who with his wives and children was on his way to the Fraser River, where the Indians congregated to pick and dry berries, and to fish and dry salmon. The trip across was uneventful until in the fog and darkness we lost our way at the mouth of the river. The chief put his pole down in the mud and anchored his canoe, as he supposed, and we went to sleep on board the craft. Next morning we found we were high and dry in the mud on a bar that seemed to be miles away from any water. Oh, the mud, mud! There is nothing that compares with the mud of the Fraser for slimy stickiness when the tide is out. It was near noon the next day before the tide again reached us, and there we were all those hours in the scorching sun, a disconsolate crowd indeed.