shore, and we could see the white water on the bar beyond the light-house. We paddled on for several miles in the trough of the sea, dodging the waves and escaping capsize only by careful steering. We thought it useless to venture out into the roadstead, but kept along near the shore, and when we found the waves were rising to a height which made further advance foolhardy, we ran the canoes ashore through the surf and hauled them up on the beach just under the sand-dunes—the ideal camp-ground of our imaginations. We were not in sight of any house, and as we could not paddle any farther, it looked as if we might enjoy our sea-shore camp after all. However, on reconnoitring from the top of one of the dunes, we saw an ox-cart slowly moving across the meadow a half-mile or more away, and ran and overtook it. The driver was a fine, tall young Roumanian farmer, with an intelligent, handsome face, and he consented to carry the canoes to the Sulina branch for us. He had an excellent cart and two yoke of oxen, and there was an easy road along the hard beach. On the firm white sand, under a brilliant noonday sun, and in full view of the great blue expanse of the Black Sea, we dismantled the canoes and lashed them on the ox-cart, one above the other. After a couple of hours’ walk along the beach in the very wash of the waves, we came to the north bank of the Sulina arm opposite the town. Here we slid the canoes into the stream, took our last paddle across the Danube, and deposited them in the warehouse of a hospitable friend to await shipment to England. We then and there compared notes, and agreed we had only two things to regret in our whole trip: one that we did not launch the canoes at Villingen, fifteen miles above Donaueschingen, and the other that we did not have our camp on the sands of the Black Sea.