There are a number of French dwellers along the St. Lawrence River who live by selling the skins and oil of the _Marsouin blanc_, and arrangements were made to hunt with one of them. The day before, I had driven twenty-five miles from Tadoussac to the porpoise hunter’s cabin and in the morning, shortly after five o’clock, my cameras were loaded into one of the canoes and we paddled around the rocky headland into the little cove where the yawl from which we were to hunt lay at anchor. A run of four hours took us across the St. Lawrence and we began beating up the south shore against a strong head wind. It was slow work and not until three o’clock in the afternoon did we drop anchor in a shallow cove at Apple Island, our destination. There is a strong tide rip about the eastern end of this little point of land, and in it the whales play back and forth, feeding on the small fish which drift in with the current. After stowing the sail, one of the canoes with two of the men put out from the harbor while the three of us who remained climbed over the rocks to the highest point of the island. The wind had changed and blew strongly from the southwest, topping the long swells with white and churning the waves into foam as they broke along the ragged shore line. Three or four whales could be seen some distance away and the canoe headed for them, as it swung around the point, in spite of the rough water. With my glasses, I watched the little craft bobbing about among the whitecaps, slowly nearing the specter-like forms which rose every few seconds and sank, only to appear again a few feet farther on. When they were about one hundred yards away, the men became motionless and the boat drifted onward with the wind. The porpoises paid not the slightest attention to the canoe and went down only a few feet ahead. As they left the water the man in the bow suddenly leaned forward and with gun ready waited the reappearance of the animals. They came up not twenty feet away and hardly had their snowy heads appeared above the surface when a thin white line of smoke shot from the gun and the nearest whale threw itself high in the air, falling back in a cloud of spray. Instantly the canoe leaped forward, the man in the bow balancing the harpoon, but the whale straightened out and sank before he could throw the iron. With disappointed faces the men returned and climbed the rock where we were sitting. We watched until six o’clock but no more porpoises appeared, and I was glad when we reached the boat for the wind cut like a knife as it drove across the hilltop. The cabin was so small that we could not sit upright and it was next to impossible to move when we were all there together; however, it was warm and that was something. After our dinner of stew, made from potatoes and onions, we packed ourselves away for the night, each on a narrow board which served as a bunk. [Illustration: