OFF AND ON THE TOWING PATH. 65 



OFF AND ON THE TOWING PATH. 



T" IKE a pistol shot came the crack of a 

 whip from the towing path. The rope 

 tightened, then sagged for a moment, finally 

 became taut, and the barge Catherine and 

 Ellen, on which I stood dodging the smoke 

 from her cabin chimney, passed out between 

 the ponderous gates of the canal lock. 



Locks are frequent in this part of Hert- 

 fordshire and I had begged a passage as far 

 as the next barrier. In silence, broken only 

 by the ripple of the water, as it parted at the 

 bow and slipped gurgling from the sides, or 

 the occasional creak of the tiller, the boat 

 glided past low-lying meadows dotted with 

 grazing cattle, to enter upon a reach between 

 an avenue of stately trees, whose foliage of 

 russet and gold, telling of the passing of 

 summer, darkened the water with deep and 



