102 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



unknown genius of the woods or streams. It sat 

 there on the chips and shavings and fragments of 

 bark like some shy, delicate creature just emerged 

 from its hiding-place, or like some wild flower just 

 opened. It was the first boat of the kind I had 

 ever seen, and it filled my eye completely. What 

 woodcraft it indicated, and what a wild, free life, 

 sylvan life, it promised! It had such a fresh, 

 aboriginal look as I had never before seen in any 

 kind of handiwork. Its clear, yellow-red color 

 would have become the cheek of an Indian maiden. 

 Then its supple curves and swells, its sinewy stays 

 and thwarts, its bow- like contour, its tomahawk 

 stem and stern rising quickly and sharply from its 

 frame, were all vividly suggestive of the race from 

 which it came. An old Indian had taught Uncle 

 Nathan the art, and the soul of the ideal red man 

 looked out of the boat before us. Uncle Nathan 

 had spent two days ranging the mountains looking 

 for a suitable tree, and had worked nearly a week 

 on the craft. It was twelve feet long, and would 

 seat and carry five men nicely. Three trees con- 

 tribute to the making of a canoe beside the birch, 

 namely, the white cedar for ribs and lining, the 

 spruce for roots and fibres to sew its joints and bind 

 its frame, and the pine for pitch or rosin to stop 

 its seams and cracks. It is hand-made and home- 

 made, or rather wood-made, in a sense that no 

 other craft is, except a dugout, and it suggests a 

 taste and a refinement that few products of civiliza- 

 tion realize. The design of a savage, it yet looks 



