And there lies in wait the awful Octopus, a monster of insatiable voracity, of untameable ferocity, and of consummate craft; of sleepless vigilance, shrouded amidst the forest of sea-weed, and from the touch of whose terrible arms no living thing escapes. It attains to an enormous size in those seas, the arms being sometimes five feet in length, and as thick at the base as a man's wrist. No bather would have a chance if he once got within the grasp of such a monster, nor could a canoe resist the strength of its pull; but the Indian, who devours the Octopus with great relish, has all the cunning created by necessity, and takes care that none of the eight sucker-dotted arms ever gain a hold on his frail bark. Professor Owen has figured a species of Octopus, the Eight-armed Cuttle of the European seas, representing it in the act of creeping on shore, its body being carried vertically in the reverse position, with its head downwards, and its back being turned towards the spectator, upon whom it is supposed to be advancing. This animal is said to be luminous in the dark. Linnæus quotes Bartholinus for the statement that one gave so much light that when the candle was taken away, it illuminated the room. The Sturgeon is one of the finest fishes of the country, and Mr. Lord's account of the Indian mode of taking them is a very graphic picture of this river sport. "The spearman stands in the bow, armed with a most formidable spear. The handle, from seventy to eighty feet long, is made of white pine-wood; fitted on the spear-haft is a barbed point, in shape very much like a shuttlecock, supposing each feather represented by a piece of bone, thickly barbed, and very sharp at the end. This is so contrived that it can be easily detached from the long handle by a sharp, dexterous jerk. To this barbed contrivance a long line is made fast, which is carefully coiled away close to the spearman, like a harpoon-line in a whale-boat. The four canoes, alike equipped, are paddled into the centre of the stream, and side by side drift slowly down with the current, each spearman carefully feeling along the bottom with his spear, constant practice having taught the crafty savages to know a Sturgeon's back when the spear comes in contact with it. The spear-head touches the drowsy fish; a sharp plunge, and the redskin sends the notched points through armour and cartilage, deep into the leather-like muscles. A skilful jerk frees the long handle from the barbed end, which remains inextricably fixed in the fish; the handle is thrown aside, the line seized, and the struggle begins. The first impulse is to resist this objectionable intrusion, so the angry Sturgeon comes up to see what it all means. This curiosity is generally repaid by having a second spear sent crashing into him. He then takes a header, seeking safety in