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When you buy those paper towels you purpose trying some day, be sure to get the "Scot Tissue" sort that are white and soft and very absorbent.

Scoflissue
Towels

are made of clean, fresh wood pulp-no refuse.
Pasteboard
them
boxes protect
from
floating dust that settles everywhere.
"Scot Tissue" Towels protect you from the
festering sores and skin diseases of the people
who have used the fabric towel before you.
When you think about it you'll demand these
hygienic towels as you do your own handkerchief
or napkin or toothbrush.

We will send you, charges prepaid, 5 rolls of Paper Towels and a Fixture for $2.00 (West of Mississippi River, $2.50), and if after trial they are not satisfactory, will refund your money.

SCOTT PAPER CO.

653 Glenwood Ave.

Philadelphia Makers of "Sani-Tissue" and "Waldorf 5c." Toilet Paper and other Sanitary paper products.

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An Exciting Canoe Trip

with the best of fishing, wild, rugged scenery, exciting days and dreamless nights, together with a good guide and canoe, is just what you've been looking for, but didn't know exactly where to get it, eh?

We have one already picked out for you, a trip that will give you something to talk about after you get home.

It's one in a thousand and is in the
BEAUTIFUL LAKE REGION OF
NORTHERN MINNESOTA

in the vicinity of Tower and Ely.

This country is noted all over the United States for its beautiful lakes, unexcelled fishing and fine hunting.

If you prefer a less strenuous time, but with good fishing, sailing, bathing and good hotels or had rather "lay around" your own cottage or camp, we can fix you to a dot.

THE VERMILION ROUTE takes you there. Get our two folders, "Over the Old Vermilion Trail" and "Canoes and Portages" and you'll want to come.

The Duluth & Iron Range Railroad Co.

H. JOHNSON, General Passenger Agent 105 Wolvin Bldg., DULUTH, MINN.

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Landing for dinner-On the way down the Manicaugan.

A Dry Summer in a Wet Country.

By WILLIAM TRIDER.

Photographs by the author.

ECAUSE they didn't want us to go up the Manicaugan river, as we purposed, the Montagnais Indians we tried to hire for guides and canoemen asked higher wages than any one in his senses would think of paying, and then, over night, smashed a hole in the bottom of one of our two canoes. Which was considerate of them, after all; for they might easily have carried the canoes off entirely and our outfit as well. We took the hint, patched the damaged canoe and wired for Frenchmen.

We had come down the St. Lawrence from Quebec, 180 miles away, by steamer, and a Frenchman in a sailboat, notified by wire, had come out from Bersimis to meet us-six miles out on the broad river. He was a capable and obliging Frenchman, this fellow, and lightered us and our outfit with neatness and dispatch. So when the good people of the Montagnais village so pointedly rebuked us, we hired him (he lived across the Bersimis river from the village; for good reasons, no doubt, not caring to share with the two agents for fur companies, the government telegraph agent and the Indian agent, the honor of living among some 500 of Nature's

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Portage landing at the foot of fourth chute.

Children), to take us away from there. And in due course we met our guides-who came from Godbout, seventy-five miles farther down the St. Lawrence-at Manicaugan Mills, at the mouth of the Manicaugan.

For months I had looked forward to making this long canoe journey up this wilderness river with Montagnais canoemen. They are a capable lot, as a rule tall, well-built and fine looking. Those living on the reservation at Bersimis are well-to-do, make their living by hunting and trapping far inland, and during the summer loaf around the village doing little or nothing. And now, there stood before me our four Godbout voyageurs, small of stature, weatherworn and without any experience whatever on the Manicaugan river. Their head man, Joseph Savoid, whom we promptly dubbed "Uncle," was more than sixty years of age. His son, a halfbreed, whose mother was a Nascaupee, didn't promise much. But the other two appeared to be fairly good men. I could

speak no French, and none of these men knew any English. However, Vincent, my companion, knew enough of the French-Canadian patois to make himself understood.

"Tell them it is a very dry summer," said I to Vincent, "and ask them if we'll have hard going on account of low water." Vincent tried nobly, and they all listened attentively, but made no reply.

"Dry summer," said I. "No rain. Maybe low water."

"Oui, oui, yars sar," replied the old man. But as a matter of fact he didn't understand what either one of us had said.

However, our men were willing, and they pitched camp and examined our canoes in business like fashion. The canoes were of cedar, not canvas-covered, and 182 feet long by 41 inches beam. Of supplies and duffle we had perhaps a ton. I hoped the men would be good on the portage, because there was going to be plenty of packing to do. We were to travel almost 300 miles inland, to the Laurentian mountains, beyond the Matonipi lakes.

I shall not describe chronologically the first stages of our trip, for to do so would make this narrative entirely too long. We started up the river on August 4, and from the very first found the scenery superb. Animal life, however, was remarkable for its absence; except a squirrel now and them, there did not seem to be a living thing in the country bigger than a mosquito. These latter, however, were very troublesome, as were also the black flies. This we had anticipated, but even with the best of fly-dope lavishly used, they caused us much annoyance. We heard no song or chirp of bird until our eighth day on the river, although we saw a few ducks. Nor did we succeed in catching any fish. But the scenery made up for everything else, even for the hard work on the portages and in poling up the rapids, and for the rain. Yes, it rained; but more about that later.

Few wilderness rivers will equal the Manicaugan for scenic beauty. Towering cliffs, partly covered with small spruce and birch, and rising sheer from the water's edge to heights of 200 and 300 feet, with sometimes mist-clouds shrouding their shoulders, were all along the way. Gliding by at the base of these great cliffs,

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A meeting with a party of Montagnais Indians, bound up the river for their winter hunting and trapping grounds.

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