infinite, whitening into silver, and trees, to deathlike paleness, at the lightning’s flash! All about us was drenched in rain and mud. At this juncture, poor Ba’tiste was making an effort to raise his head and shoulders—he was in agony! he had slept himself, and _slipt_ himself partly from the robe, and his elbows were fastened in the mud. “‘Oh sacré, ’tis too bad by Gar! we can get some _slips_ nevare.’ “‘Ugh! (replied Yankee Bogard) we shall get ‘slips’ enough directly, by darn, for we are all afloat, and shall go into the river by and by, in the twinkling of a goat’s eye, if we don’t look out.’ “We were nearly afloat, sure enough, and our condition growing more and more dreary every moment, and our only alternative was, to fold up our nether robe and sit upon it; hanging the other one over our heads, which formed a roof, and shielded the rain from us. To give compactness to the _trio_, and bring us into such shape as would enable the robe to protect us all, we were obliged to put our backs and occiputs together, and keep our heads from nodding. In this way we were enabled to divide equally the robe that we sat upon, as well as receive mutual benefit from the one that was above us. We thus managed to protect ourselves in the most important points, leaving our feet and legs (from necessity) to the mercy of mud. “Thus we were re-encamped. ‘A pretty mess’ (said I), we look like the ‘three graces;’—‘de tree grace, by Gar!’ said Ba’tiste. ‘Grace! (whispered Bogard) yes, it’s all _grace_ here; and I believe we’ll all be buried in _grace_ in less than an hour.’ “‘Monsr. Cataline! excusez my back, si vous plait. Bogard! comment, comment?—bonne nuit, Messieurs. Oh! mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Je vous rends grace—je vous prie pour for me sauver ce nuit—delivrez nous! delivrez nous! Je vous adore, Saint Esprit—la Vierge Marie—oh je vous rends grace! pour for de m’avoir conservé from de dam Riccree et de diable muskeet. Eh bien! eh bien!’ “In this miserable and despairing mood poor Ba’tiste dropped off gradually into a most tremendous sleep, whilst Bogard and I were holding on to our corners of the robe—recounting over the dangers and excitements of the day and night past, as well as other scenes of our adventurous lives, whilst we laid (or rather sat) looking at the lightning, with our eyes shut. Ba’tiste snored louder and louder, until sleep had got her strongest grip upon him; and his specific gravity became so great, that he pitched forward, pulling our corners of the robe nearly off from our heads, reducing us to the necessity of drawing upon them till we brought the back of his head in contact with ours, again, and his body in an erect posture, when he suddenly exclaimed. “‘Bon jour, Monsr. Bogard: bon jour, Monsr. Cataline; n’est ce pas morning, pretty near?’ “‘No, its about midnight.’ “‘Quel temps?’ “Why it rains as hard as ever. “‘Oh diable, I wish I was _tó hell_.’ “‘You may be there yet before morning, by darn.’