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AMERICAN HOMES AND GARDENS 



June, 191 



The canoe turns an almost inaccessible waste of lovely water into a navigable stream 



c 



anoeing 



By F. F. Rockwell 

 Photograph by Mary H. Northend and Others 



F all the Summer recreations — golf, tennis, 

 motoring, sailing, fishing, Hying even, in these 

 modern days — canoeing is the most widely 

 available and most entrancing. I have played 

 through golf to the extent of the whole vo- 

 cabulary; I have batted the exclusive tennis 

 ball until I was glad to throw myself down at the side lines; 

 I have thrilled at the z-z-zip of the line from the reel as it 

 grew taut under my thumb, but when it comes to a question 

 of choice — and it practically has in my case, as my spare time 

 is very limited, though I live in the country all year around — 

 I prefer canoeing to the lot. 



Canoeing seems to me to be the pastime par excellence. 

 It is, in fact, a whole catalogue of diversions in which you 

 can find something to suit almost every mood; from the 

 hazy, lazy feeling of an idle Summer afternoon to the wild 

 exhilaration of a glorious day in the trackless forest where 

 there is a stony rapids to be shot without upsetting camera 

 and camp supplies into the water. Canoeing is not, like 

 motor boating or sailing, to be enjoyed only by those fortun- 

 ate individuals who can afford to spend a good deal of time 

 and money on their recreations. Every small stream and 

 lake in the country offers an opportunity to the canoeist 

 to indulge in his favorite pastime. Nor is canoeing such a 



jealous mistress as are most outing sports; it is not necessary 

 to rivet your whole attention to it while you are enjoying it, 

 as book and camera may be taken along at will, to be en- 

 joyed under the most favorable circumstances. If you have 

 ever started out of a Summer Sunday afternoon with your 

 favorite poet under your arm, and progressed leisurely to 

 where the wavering, limpid current of the stream glides over 

 golden sands, and is overhung by the green tent of some 

 spreading maple, then you have been able to read poetry in 

 the spirit in which it was written in those distant quiet days 

 when people had a little time to think and live, and were not 

 solely occupied in chasing bread and butter, or some other 

 swift ambition which constantly eludes their pursuing feet. 

 If you have ever taken your camera with you, and after 

 mounting to the head-waters of some green-banked stream 

 which trails its sinuous way through sunlit pastures and 

 shady bits of swamp-maple and alders, or perchance through 

 the dim-lit cathedral of some pine forest, and have then 

 glided quietly down with the current with your camera on 

 the gunwale, and some companion to keep you clear of 

 banks and overhanging branches, then you have known the 

 joy of the hunt — of the only true hunting, which captures 

 the timid wild things where they are, making them yours 

 for all time, and yet leaving them free to enjoy the 



