During the short stop at Quebec the next morning only a few strenuous ones ventured ashore. The majority were content with the splendid view of the city with its frowning precipice crowned by the Citadel and the graceful pile of the Chateau Frontenac, below which were spread the picturesque roofs of the Lower Town. It was the Fourth of July and after the flags flourished by the patriotic members of the party had been duly saluted, everyone settled down to the calm enjoyment of a safe and sane fourth. The boat glided past the falls of Montmorency, the lovely Isle of Orleans, the wooded shores of the river where in one place forest fires raged, showing a thin tongue of flame under a hovering cloud of smoke, and on from the stately grandeur of the St. Lawrence to the wild beauty of the Saguenay. It was here that the real business of travel began. Baedekers made their unblushing appearance, most of them bearing on their backs the mystic symbols 917.1. The maps and guidebooks provided by the company were studied while the really "litry" were turning the pages of "A chance acquaintance" or "The golden dog." At half past six, a landing was made at L'Anse St. Jean but word was given that the real village was some distance beyond, a nice walk--from British standards! A gay start was made but the muddiness of the road and the "recedingness" of the village combined with the ravages of the black fly, which Van Dyke has truly said is "at the bottom of the moral scale of insects," caused even the most valiant to turn back. There were a few who with true Yankee enterprise chartered the only vehicles in sight and came back with glowing tales of the quaintness and charm of the village, but for the majority, it must remain the fair Carcassonne of dreams.