132 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



was as full of musical undulations as it was of 

 heat waves and light waves. An effort was re- 

 quired, not so much to hear a particular song, as 

 to separate it from the sound ripples which broke 

 unceasingly upon the ear. In the midst of the 

 splendor of the sunset colors, gold and red upon 

 the sky, gold and red upon the river, we urged 

 our dainty craft against the current, bound for 

 Fairhaven Bay. 



My canoe was a Rob Roy, my friend's a 

 longer, more slender one, without a deck. As 

 we paddled, we faced forward, and each regu- 

 lated his course by a lever, which he pressed 

 with his feet, and which was connected with the 

 rudder by chains running under the gunwales of 

 the canoe. Thanks to this device, which is my 

 friend's, we were enabled to use light, single- 

 bladed paddles and to give little thought to the 

 method of our strokes. 



It is pleasant to look forward rather than 

 backward as one travels on a river. There is 

 more of hope in it, and consequently more of 

 joy. lu rowing, one sees only departing, waning 

 beauty ; in paddling, the whole world is before, 

 with its good and evil inviting choice, its prom- 

 ises of wonders beyond distant shores, its ever 

 enlarging beauties, its swiftly realized dreams. 



As our paddles rose and fell, scattering bright 

 globules of water on the river, which at first 



