sing as many natural advantages for yacht club purposes. 
It is located practically in the Center of the sailing 
grounds of this section; it has on the Willoughby Bay 
side ample and a perfectly safe anchorage for an un- 
limited number of small boats, and it affords unequalled 
opportunities for bathing and fishing. 
Willoughby Bay, being almost entirely landlocked, is 
admirably suited for rowing and small sailboats, while 
just around the point are the waters of the Chesapeake 
for the large craft. This location is equally as con- 
venient for the yachtsmen of Newport News, Hampton 
and Old Point, who are members of the club, as for the 
local yachtsmen. . 
It is the intention to build a club house facing on Chesa- 
peake Bay, and a boat house facing on Willoughby Bay. 
The following is the list of officers: Com., James F. 
Duncan; Capt, Clarence A. Neff; Sec'y, Lewis Van R. 
Smith; Paymaster, Charles C. Couper; Board of Gov- 
ernors, Harry C. Dodson, Wyndham R. Mayo, Jr., H. R. 
Rice, Thomas P. Thompson, Joseph F. Drummond, R. B. 
Taylor and Ira B. White. 
It was the original intention of the club to limit its 
membership to 100 members, and accordingly the club was 
incorporated with 100 shares of stock. These were all 
subscribed to, and with such readiness that the Board of 
Governors decided to increase the membership to 150, and 
has ordered 50 additional shares to be issued. 
8^ 
The following named naval officers having kindly 
offered to address the members of the New York Y. C, 
dates as below have been decided upon: 
Feb. 6— Rear-Admiral Francis T. Bowles, U. S. N. ; 
subject, "Naval Construction." 
Feb. 27 — Rear- Admiral George W. Melville, U. S. N. ; 
subject; "Arctic Experiences." 
March 20— Rear-Admiral Charles O'Neil, U. S. N. ; 
subject, "Ships, Guns and Explosives." 
On April 10 there will be a musicale, and the subject 
for May 1 will be announced later. 
After an address, should there be time, other features 
will be added. The entertainments will begin at 9:30 
o'clock in the evening. 
K * H 
The annual meeting of the New Rochelle Y. C. was 
held on Saturday evening, Feb. 1. at the Hotel Man- 
hattan, New York city. The following officers and com- 
mittees were elected^ Com., Clendenin Eckert, yawl 
Thistle; Vice-Corn., L. M. Scott, sloop Tosto ; Rear-Corn., 
P. E. Revelle, sloop Louise; Sec'y, James E. Ricketts; 
Treas., F. R. Farrington; Trustees, three years, A. S. 
Cross, Charles M. Fletcher, H. T. Noyes; Law Commit- 
tee, John F. Lambden, Frederick L. Seacord ; Regatta 
Committee, Charles A. Tower, Howard L. Smith, C. A. 
Becker, A. P. Weston, William E. Moore. 
— § — 
Down the Danube in a Canadian 
Canoe. — II. 
(From Macmillan's Magazine.) 
At Gutenstein, where we camped in a hay field, the 
mowers woke us at dawn, peering into the mouth^of the 
tent But they made no objections and merely said, "Gruss 
Gott" and Gute Reise" ; and for an hour afterward I 
heard their scythes musically in my dreams as they cut 
a pathway for us to the river. 
At Obermarchsthal we left the mountains behind us, 
and with thefrt, too, the memory of a pathetic figure. As 
we landed to go up to the little inn for eggs, an old man, 
leaning on a stick, hobbled down to meet us. His white 
hair escaped in disorder from beneath a peaked blue hat,- 
and he -wore a suit of a curious checked pattern that 
seemed wholly out of keeping with the dress of the coun- 
try. At first, when he spoke, I could not understand him, 
and asked him in German to repeat his remarks. 
"He's talking English," said my companion. "Can't 
you hear?" And English it was. He invited us up to 
the inn and told us his story over a mug of beer. 
"This is my native village. I was born and raised 
here, and sixty years ago I ran away from Germany to 
escape military service. I went to the United States and 
settled finally in Alabama. I had a shop in Mobile, down 
South in' a nigger town, and as soon as I was ready I 
wrote to the girl I left here to come out to me. She came 
and we were married. I've had two wives since out 
there. Now they're all buried in a little churchyard out- 
side Mobile. And this is the first time I've been back in 
sixty years," he went on after a gulp of beer. "The vil- 
lage ain't changed one single bit. I feel as though I'd 
been sleepin' and sorter dreamin' all the while. * * * 
The shop's sold and I'm takin' a last look round at the ole 
place. There's only one or two that remembers me. but I 
was born and raised here, and this is where I had my 
first love, and the place is full of memories, just chock 
full. No, I ain't a-goin' to live here. I'm goin' back 
to the States nex' month, so as I can die there and lie 
beside the others in the cemetery at Mobile." 
The country became flatter and the mountains were 
soon a blue line on the horizon behind us. At Opfingen 
we crossed our last weir, and among the- clouds in front of 
us saw the spire of Ulm cathedral, the. tallest in the 
world. A fierce current swept us past banks fringed with 
myrtle bushes, poppies, and yellow flags. Poplars rose 
in lines over the country, bending their heads in the wind, 
and we camped at 8 o'clock in a wood about a mile above 
the town. While dinner was cooking a dog rushed bark- 
ing up to us, followed by three men with guns. They 
were evidently German Jiiger. Two of them were dressed 
like pattern plates out of a tailor's guide to sportsmen — in 
spotless gaiters, pointed hats with feathers (like stage 
Tyrolese), guns with the latest slings, and silver whistles 
slung on colored cord round their necks : They examined 
the canoe first, and then came up and examined us. One 
of them, who was probably the proprietor of the land, a 
surly gruff fellow, had evidently made up his mind that 
we were poachers. And I must admit that at first sight 
there was ground for suspicion, for no poacher could 
possibly have found fault with our appearance. 
FOftESt AND STREAM. 
"What are you doing here?" he asked. 
"Preparing to camp for the night," we told him. 
"When are you going on ?" . s> 
"We intend to go into Ulm in the morning. 
"Where do you come from; are you Englishmen? 
"Yes; we come from London." 
"Ach was!" (they all say Ach -was when they want to 
be witheringly scornful). "In that egg shell?" • 
"Certainly." 
"And where are you going to?" 
"Odessa." 
They exchanged glances. "Evidently madmen, and not 
poachers," said the face of the man with the biggest silver 
whistle plainer than any words could have spoken it. Do 
you know these are private preserves?" was the next 
question. 
"No." My friend, a keen sportsman, sheltered him- 
self scowling behind his alleged ignorance of German 
(somehow he always knew our conversation afterward to 
a word) : but the penny whistle and immaculate costume 
of the hunters in a scrubby wood where not even a rabbit 
lived, excited him to explosions of laughter which he 
concealed by frequent journeys to the tent. 
"What's in that tent?" 
"Beds." The chasseurs and the keeper went to ex- 
amine, while the dog sniffed about' everywhere. Our beds 
were not then untied, and the sportsman untied them; 
but thev found only blankets and cork mattresses.^ 
"You have no guns, or dogs, or fishing rods? We 
shook our heads sulkily. "And you are only traveling 
peacefully for pleasure?" 
"We are trying to," we said meekly. 
"Then you may sleep here if you go on again to-mor- 
row ; but don't go into the woods after game." Then the 
men moved off. Doubtless they were right toask ques- 
tions, yet we were so obviously travelers. "Still, our 
weather-worn appearance and unshaved faces probably 
made us look more than a little doubtful." quoth my 
friend, who himself wore a slouch hat that did not add to 
the candor of his expression. 
In the middle of dinner the men suddenly returned 
from another angle of the wood and examined everything 
afresh. We offered them some tea in a tin cup, which 
they declined; and at last after watching us at our meal 
in silence for ten minutes they moved off, evidently still 
suspicious. Thereafter we always knew them as the 
chasseurs. They were not the only pests, however. Mos- 
quitoes appeared later— our first — and that night we slept 
behind the mosquito netting we had so carefully fitted to 
the mouth of the tent when we first erected it weeks 
before in the garden of a London square. During the 
night some one prowled about the tent. We heard twigs 
snapping and the footsteps among the bushes : but neither 
of us troubled ourselves to get up. If they took the 
canoe, they'd be drowned; and our other only valuables 
(a celluloid collar apiece, a clean suit for the big towns, 
and a map), were safely inside the tent. 
In the morning we shaved and washed carefully, and 
put on our full dress for the benefit of Ulm. We intended 
to paddle down quietly and stop at the Rowing Club 
wharf of which we had read ; according to the map it was 
a mile, and the current easy_ and pleasant. We wished 
our entrance to be sober and in good taste. _ 
The best-laid plans, however, will sometimes go amiss 
when you're canoeing on the Danube. We were half-way 
when we heard a roar like a train rushing over a hollow 
bridge. It grew louder every minute. In front of us the 
water danced and leaped, and before we knew what had 
happened, we were plunging about among foaming waves 
and flying past the banks at something more than ten 
miles an hour. 
"It's the Iller," cried my friend as the paddle was 
nearly wrested from his grasp. "It's marked on the 
map just about here." 
It was the Iller. It had come in at an acute angle after 
running almost parallel with us for a little distance. It 
tumbled in at headlong speed, with an icy, turbulent flood 
of muddy water, and it gave the sedate Danube an im- 
petus that it did not lose for another hundred miles below 
Ulm. For a space the two rivers declined to mingle. The 
noisy, dirty Iller, fresh from the Alps, kept to the right 
bank, going twice as fast as its more dignified companion 
on the left. A distinct line (as though drawn by a 
rope) divided them, in color, speed, and height — the 
Iller remaining for a long time at least half an inch above 
the level of the Danube. At length they mingled more 
freely and swept us down upon Ulm in a torrent of rough, 
racing water. Our leisurely, dignified entrance into Ulm 
was, like the suspicions of the chasseurs, a structure built 
on insufficient knowledge, a mere dream. Ulm lies on a 
curve of the river. Big bridges with nasty thick p : llars 
(and whirlpools, therefore, behind them) stand at both 
entrance and exit. How we raced under the first bridge I 
shall never forget. We were half-way through the town, 
with the wet spray still on our cheeks, before the sound 
of the gurgling eddies below the bridge had ceased behind 
us. Where, oh, where was the friendly wharf of that 
Danube Rowing Club? The second bridge rose before 
us. There were crested waves under its arches. Already 
Ulm was almost a thing of the past ; yet we had hoped 
to spend at least a week exploring its beauties. 
"There it is," cried my friend in the bows, "on the left 
bank! That old board — see it? That's the wharf." 
We managed to turn in mid current and point the cance 
up stream. Then, by paddling as hard as Ave could, we 
dropped down past the wharf at a pace that just enabled 
us to grasp the rings in the boards and come to a stand- 
still. You'll never forget Ulm if you arrive there, as we 
d'd, in a canoe, when the Iller is in flood. 
We spent a week in the quaint old town of Ulm. but 
our adventures there have properly no part in our journey 
down the river. Only, in passing. I must mention the 
courtesy of the Danube Rowing Club. Fritz Miller (who 
rowed at Henley in 1900 for the Diamond Sculls) is the 
leading spirit in a list of members who showed us all 
possible kindness. They housed and mended our canoe, 
varnished it afresh, and gave us better maps. The secret 
charms of picturesque Ulm unknown to the tourist were 
shown to us ; and in the evenings we used to meet for 
music and supper in a quaint little club room that hangs 
half of its Roman masonry over the rushing river. 
Here the navigation of the Danube (such as it is) is 
said to begin. The fierce current allows no boats or 
steamers, but immense barges (called Ulmer Schachtel) 
laden with merchandise, are floated down the current to 
11? 
the Bavarian towns below. On arrival they are sold fof 
lumber, the return journey being impossible. 
The' Rowing Club takes out eights and fours. Rowing 
with all their might they move two miles an hour against 
the current; and it may well be imagined that, with this 
training, they are well nigh the first rowing club in 
Germany. . TT , 
There was a great deal of rain while we were in Ulm 
and we started again on a rapidly rising river, full of 
floating rubbish, and rushing at a pace that made it a 
pleasure merely to stand and watch it from the bank. The 
Bavarian bank (Ulm is on the frontier line of Bavaria 
and Wiirtemberg) displayed black sign boards with the 
kilometers marked in white. We timed our speed by one 
of Benson's chronometers and found it to be ever twelve 
miles an hour. It was like traveling over a smooth road 
behind fast horses. My notebook gives an average day, 
the day. for instance, we left Ulm : 
June 19— The members of the Rowing Club came down 
in force to see us off at 11 o'clock. Flags were flying m 
our honor and we heard the men shouting gluck- 
lichc Reise as we shot the middle arch_ of the 
bridge on the wave of a rather nasty rapid. The 
bridge was lined with people, but we only faintly heard 
their cries for the thunder of the waves. This exceed- 
ingly rapid water makes awkward currents as it swirls 
round the pillars of the big bridges. Behind the arches 
are always whirlpools, which twist you sideways and 
toss you from them with ridiculous ease. A wrong turn 
of the steering paddle and the canoe would be sucked 
in instead of thrown out, and then ! At a little dis- 
tance below the bridge the eddies of the whirlpool from 
adjacent pillars meet in a series of crested waves. The 
only safe channel lies exactly in the middle. The canoe 
rises, slaps down again, all its length a-quiver; the first 
wave breaks under the bows and some of the water comes 
in, but before enough is shipped to be, dangerous the 
frail craft rises again with a leap to the next wave. Then 
the race begins. The least wrong twist to left or right 
and the waves break sideways into the canoe and down 
she goes. It takes so little water to sink a laden canoe. 
To-day, for the first time, we heard the famous song 
of the Danube— famous at least to us who had read of 
it in so many different accounts. It is a hissing, seething 
sound which rises everywhere from the river. You think 
steam must be escaping somewhere, or soda water fizzing 
out from an immense syphon among the woods on the 
banks. It is said to be the friction on the pebbles along 
the bed of the river, caused by the terrific speed of so 
great a body of water. Under "the canoe it made; a pecu- 
liar buzzing sound, accompanied by a distinct vibration of 
the thin basswood on which we knelt. 
We swept through Bavaria much faster than we wished, 
but it was impossible to go slowly. The river communi- 
cated something of its hurry to ourselves, and in my mind 
the journey now presents itself something in the form 
of a series of brilliant cineomatographs. Delightful were 
our lunches at the quaint inns of^remote villages — black 
bread, sausage, and such beer ! — Lauingen, a town of the 
sixteenth century, where the spokesman of the crowd 
said, "I suppose you're both single" ; Donauworth, in a 
paradise of wild flowers, where the Lech tears in on the 
right with leaping waves; Neuberg. with a dangerous 
stone bridge and the worst rapids we had yet encountered. 
Then a long stretch where the swamps ceased and the 
woods began to change. Instead of endless willows we 
had pine, oak, sycamore, birch and poplar. The river 
was a mile wide with outlets into lagoons, like Norfolk 
Broads, that ran parallel with us for mrles and were 
probahly empty mud flats at low water. Fishing nets 
were_ hanging up to dry along the shore, and hay lay 
sunning itself on the narrow strips of the banks. We 
passed Ingolstadt, a military post, and then the river 
dipped down before us into blue hills and we came to 
Vohburg — destroyed by the Swiss in 1641, and now, ap- 
parently, nothing but a collection of quaint chimneys and 
storks' nests— and, soon after it, Eining, near Abusina, a 
Roman frontier station established fifteen years before our 
era. Trajan's wall crossed the river near here and ex- 
tended north as far as Wiesbaden. 
Then the river narrowed between precipitous lime- 
stone cliffs and we entered the gorge of Kehlheim. At 
its very mouth, between impregnable rocks, lay the 
monastery of Weltenburg. the oldest in Bavaria. The 
river sweeping round a bend into the rocky jaws made 
landing difficult; but we accomplished it, and entered 
the old courtyard through an iron gate with graceful stone 
pillars. There were everywhere signs of neglect and 
decay. The monks' quarters formed one side of the 
square and the church another; a third side was a wall of 
rock; the fourth was the river. It was secluded, peace- 
ful beyond description, absolutely out of the world. The 
air was cool, the shadow's deep. Fruit trees grew in the 
court yard, and monks (there were only thirteen in all) 
in black g?wns were piling up wood for the winter. A 
priest was intoning vespers ; n the church, which boasted a 
beautiful organ, marble altars and elaborate carving of 
the usual gilded sort. The sunshine filled the painted 
air. Outside over the neglected walls crept vines, and at 
the far end of the courtyard a wild rose tree, covered 
with sweet- smelling blossoms, grew at the foot of crum- 
bling stone steps that led under shady trees to a chapel 
perched on the cliffs. We toiled up in the heat and 
were rewarded by a glorious view ; from above the monas- 
tery was shut in like a nest betewen river and cliffs. 
Later in the day we were driven by a violent thunder- 
storm t* the first landing place we could find. It was 
a few miles below Weltenburg in the very heart of the 
gorge. With surprising good fortune we found a cave 
leading deep into the mountain, and in less than ten min- 
utes we were dry and snug before a fire burning cheer- 
fully for dinner. It was a strange camp — the storm howl- 
ing outside and the firelight dancing down behind us into 
the interior of the cave, which was unnecessarily full of 
bats. 
At Ratisbon. the Castra Regina of the Romans, we were 
solemnly warned not to attempt to pass under the bridge. 
"The whirlpools are savage." they told us. "Of the 
seven archer of this six-hundred-year-old bridge, all but 
one are forbidden by the police." Leaving the canoe half 
a mile above, we landed and walked down the shore to 
examine, "Boats have gene through," said a pompous 
man on the bridge as he pointed out the worst places to 
us, "but even if they got under the arch they have always 
been sucked in there !" He pointed to a white seething 
circle of water. "You'll never get through that in your 
