The Open Air 



up, sniffing the air. The whole crowd of boats on hire 

 were exactly the same; in short, they were built for 

 woman and not for man, for lovely woman to recline, 

 parasol in one hand and tiller ropes in the other, 

 while man inferior man pulled and pulled and 

 pulled as an ox yoked to the plough. They could 

 only be balanced by man and woman, that was the 

 only way they could be trimmed on an even keel; 

 they were like scales, in which the weight on one side 

 must be counterpoised by a weight in the other. 

 They were dead against bachelors. They belonged to 

 woman, and she was absolute mistress of the river. 



As I looked, the boats ground together a little, 

 chafing, laughing at me, making game of me, asking 

 distinctly what business a man had there without 

 at least one companion in petticoats? My courage 

 ebbed, and it was in a feeble voice that I inquired 

 whether there was no such thing as a little skiff a 

 fellow might paddle about in ? No, nothing of the 

 kind; would a canoe do? Somehow a canoe would 

 not do. I never took kindly to canoes, excepting 

 always the Canadian birch-bark pattern; evidently 

 there was no boat for me. There was no place on the 

 great river for an indolent, dreamy particle like my- 

 self, apt to drift up into nooks, and to spend much 

 time absorbing those pleasures which enter by the 

 exquisite sensitiveness of the eye colour, and shade, 

 and form, and the cadence of glittering ripple and 

 moving leaf. You must be prepared to pull and push, 

 and struggle for your existence on the river, as in the 

 vast city hard by men push and crush for money. 

 You must assert yourself, and insist upon having 

 your share of the waterway; you must be perfectly 

 convinced that yours is the very best style of rowing 

 to be seen; every one ought to get out of your way. 



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