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23 Finally in the diary for that day, I came to two very mysterious entries. The first is "count p. de c." I know what "p. de c." means-- it is the abbreviation of "pommes de cheval" which translated means apples of the horse" and everybody knows what that means, particularly in French Canada in 1934. They were on all streets and highways and in profusion. But why we or anyone else would count them is beyond me--in fact, it would be impossible. So there is a mystery which none of us has been able to shed any light upon. The other entry is "anchor around his neck." This conceivably could refer to some obnoxious individual whom we'd expressed the desire to see thrown overboard with an anchor tied around his neck but I hardly think so. All of us were non-plussed by this one also. Strictly out of curiosity, I'd like to know what these two entries refer to but I feel I never shall. We sailed from Bagotville for Quebec the next morning at 7:15, another cool and lovely day. Some idea of the temperature may be gained by looking at us all bundled up as we sit on deck. These two shots were evidently taken in the Saguenay and from the height of the sun as judged by the shadows, must have been taken as we cruised downstream that morning and we are facing forward which in this case is eastward toward the morning sun. We had traversed most of this in the moonlight the previous night and now we saw it in daylight. It was one of the most fascinating boat rides I've ever had, before or since. It was the black river winding through a well-nigh virgin wilderness that dominated the scenes we passed. The bays that crept back into the deep, primeval pine forests, occasionally a tiny settlement nestled between the great trees and the river. The superbly beautiful river moving silently through the vast depths of its winding channel. Enormous precipices dropping sheer into the passing water, in some places towering a magnificent 2,000 feet of clean rock straight from the surface. As we drew nearer to the St. Lawrence, it began to grow partially overcast. The echos of the ship's whistle came back sharp and clear from these tremendous gray granite walls. At Tadoussac where the Saguenay empties into the St. Lawrence, the hills lining the shore have become less precipitous and things seem to somehow soften and smooth out and blend and the river that has been wild and magnificent suddenly loses itself in the vastly greater river flowing eastward to the sea. We docked at Tadoussac for long enough for the passengers to debark and have a quick look at the picturesque old town and sprawling tourist hotel strung out on the bluff above the river. Two of Charlie's pictures capture the feel of this old French town very well and, I think, particularly the one of the little old church beyond the white picket fence of the hotel grounds, with the white stones of the graveyard in the background. A great deal is there--the suggested leisure and
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