The boat in which we embarked was a large, strongly-built one, constructed on purpose for the journey to Peace River. Forty passengers were crowded into it, packed close as negroes in a slaver. The day was very cold, and the snow fell heavily, wetting us through before long; and the pools of “slush,” which formed at the bottom of the boat, made our feet ache again with cold. A little below Quesnelle Mouth is a rather dangerous “riffle,” or rapid, of lumpy water, where the whirlpool is said to have sucked down canoes head foremost. We shot this safely, although we shipped some water, and continued to run down the stream at a great pace, until just after passing Alexandria, when we stuck fast on a shallow rapid. The boat could not be got off by any amount of pushing, and McBride called for volunteers to jump overboard, and lighten the boat. Five or six fellows at once responded, and as the boat was still immovable, each took another on his back, and proceeded towards the shore. One little fellow, carrying a huge six-feet Yankee, stumbled and fell, with his rider; both were soused overhead, and essayed several times in vain to gain their legs, for the current was so powerful that it swept them down at each attempt. The lookers-on roared with laughter, but it was no joke to the sufferers to be immersed in the icy waters of the Fraser on such a day. The boat was now lifted off the shallow, the waders re-embarked, and we continued our course until nearly dark, when McBride proposed to land and camp for the night, as we were still many miles from Soda Creek, and there were several awkward rapids before us. A few daredevils voted for going forward, but the majority decided against it, and we pulled in to the bank, at a place where there were some large stacks of wood, cut for the use of the steamer. Every one now tried to strike a light, but Milton was the first to succeed, and we were soon surrounded by a circle of roaring fires, at the expense of the owners of the Quesnelle steamboat. McBride produced some loaves and a flitch of bacon, which very soon disappeared before the fierce attacks of the hungry party, and we then turned in on couches of pine boughs. It snowed fast all night, and we woke up in the morning under a thick white counterpane. There was nothing for breakfast, and as soon as the morning mists cleared away from the river we took to the boat again, and reached Soda Creek safely in about a couple of hours. We had taken our places in the “express wagon,” running between this place and Yale with letters and gold; but, as the express-man had not yet returned from Cariboo, we walked on fourteen miles to Davidson’s, near William’s Lake. The farm here is, perhaps, the finest in British Columbia, comprising several hundred acres of low land on the borders of the lake, the delta of a small stream which enters at this point. Potatoes and other vegetables, barley and oats, flourish wonderfully. Wheat had been sown for the