Hard work, much danger, a little schooling, and still less playing is the summary of a fisher-boy’s life. It makes him very healthy, brown, and strong, but it never makes him rich. The most he can do is to earn enough to build and furnish a cottage when he marries, and provide plain food and coarse clothing for the family that soon springs up around him. Now and then—that is, whenever he has fish to sell—he goes up to the city; and this is his only holiday. While still a boy he generally behaves himself well enough on these visits, but, growing older, he does not always grow wiser, I am sorry to say, and I have often seen sad-faced wives rowing the heavy boat wearily home, while their husbands lay in the stern-sheets in a drunken stupor. *LOST ON THE LIMITS.* *(A CHRISTMAS STORY.)* "I wish you had taken my advice and stayed at the shanty, Harry." The speaker was a stalwart young man, so closely wrapped in a blue blanket capote that only a portion of his face showed itself, and the one addressed was a boy of sixteen, similarly accoutred. "I felt more than half-afraid of this storm overtaking us," the young man continued; "and now we’re in a pretty fix. I can’t imagine how we’ll ever reach the depot." There was something so despondent in his tone that one might have expected his words to exercise a dispiriting effect upon his companion; but, instead of that, Harry answered brightly,— "Reach the depot! Of course we will; and in good time for our Christmas dinner, too! You mustn’t worry on my account, Mr. Maynard. If anything should happen, it would be all my own fault, you know. You wouldn’t be the least bit to blame." Mr. Maynard shook his head negatively. "It’s very good of you to say so, Harry, but I can’t help feeling responsible all the same. Oh!" he cried, with a gesture of irritated protest against the situation, "what a plague this snow is! Surely we had enough of it already, and didn’t need this storm." John Maynard was the bush superintendent on one of the great timber limits of Booth and Bronson, the millionaire lumbermen of Canada. The duty devolved upon him of driving about from one "shanty" (as the permanent camps of the log-cutters are called) to another, taking account of the work done, and giving directions as to the bunches of timber next to be attacked. This was a very arduous occupation, entailing as it did long and lonely drives through forest roads, passable only in winter, across the broad bosoms of frozen lakes, and along the winding courses of ice-bound rivers. For this purpose he had a pair of powerful horses and a low, strong sleigh, made altogether of wood, that had accommodation for just two persons and some baggage. As a rule he made these journeys alone, but this winter he had been favoured with a companion in Harry Bronson, the eldest son of a member of the firm, who had asked permission to spend the winter at the "shanties."