Birtle, Another Mushroom Town, Looked So Pretty And Picturesque As We Came Down Upon It, By The Evening Light, Situated In A Deep Gorge Much Wooded On The Birdtail-Creek.

You would have laughed to see us arrive at what we thought our destination - a nice house on the top of the opposite hill belonging to a friend of the Manager's, where we were to be hospitably entertained.

The house was locked up, but that was no obstacle; we forced the windows open, and whilst A - - put the horses up, the Manager went down the hill for water, I foraged for eatables, E - - for wood to light the fire, and we very shortly afterwards sat down to a very fair meal; our neighbours' bacon and tea, but our own bread. Luckily a Winnipeg lady, hearing of our arrival, came up to offer her services in the shape of food or lodging; the latter we two gladly accepted, instead of pitching our tent outside the house, which was already full, three bachelors living there and our two men intending steeping between the walls, _coute que coule_. The house we spent our night in was a log one, and though unpapered, looked very comfortable, and was prettily hung round with Japanese fans and scrolls, and various photographs. We had a funny little canvas partition in the roof allotted to us; but were not particular, and did great credit to our feather bed.

And how excellent our breakfast was next morning, porridge and eggs; we hardly knew when to stop eating. We started early to Fort Ellice, one of the Hudson Bay forts, hoping to find the steamer on the Assiniboine to take us back to Winnipeg; but unfortunately it had stuck on the rapids. So after waiting twenty-four hours at the fort, we determined to drive down to the end of the Canadian Pacific Railway, and so home. The old fort is very little altered from what it used to be, surrounded by its wooden pailings, and having a store on the left side of the entrance gate, where all the Indians come to make their purchases in cotton-goods and groceries in exchange for their blankets, moccassins, or furs. The Assiniboine we crossed just before getting to the fort, on a ferry. It is a grand winding river with fearfully steep banks, 380 feet almost straight up, which was a pull for our horses, the tracks being very, bad, and not well engineered, going perpendicularly up the hill. Mr. Macdonald is the "boss" at the fort, and had known two of our friends who were up here several years ago.

There is a Lincolnshire man farming on a large scale settled not very far away from the fort; but we had neither time nor inclination to go further north. We hoped against hope that the steamer might get up, but on Saturday gave it up as useless, and settled to drive towards Gophir Ferry, trying to find a friend who, when out at C - - Farm, told us he was living on section xxvii by 13, and near two creeks.

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