Camping on Connecticut River 
By Edward Cole. 
A FTER pursuing- the phantom Pleasure 
about the country and on the high seas 
during the vacation season it occurred to 
the Commodore and me one day, that the Con¬ 
necticut River, which, being so near, had always 
seemed, as it were, part of the back-yard and so 
to be shunned in vacation time, might after all 
have possibilities for those fond of following the 
lately idolized Red Gods. 
Having come to this conclusion it by no means 
followed that: we immediately acted upon it. No, 
the Commodore and I are married and being 
natives of the “Land of Steady Habits” passed 
the question on to the person higher up. 
Oh! that was a masterly campaign. Mosqui¬ 
toes ! Citronella and netting. River fogs! Good 
tents and a big camp fire. Capsizing (we were 
to go in canoes) pneumatic cushions and aquatic 
husbands. Burglars, tramps and cows! Ab¬ 
sence of valuables (except aforesaid wives) dis¬ 
tance from the railroad track and the presence 
of one who had acquired the gentle art of ex¬ 
tracting milk from the bovine. 
One after the other we took criticism and ar¬ 
gument into camp and the result was a trial trip 
to extend from Saturday at noon to Sunday, the 
hour not fixed. 
So Saturday, but, alas, not quite at noon, saw 
two graceful Morrises, outraged by all those evi¬ 
dences of amateur campers, loads of tinware, 
unnecessarily large wall-tents and poles, suit¬ 
cases, blankets, and provisions', start out on the 
Great Adventure. In each canoe in the midst of 
this disorder so trying to the house-wifely eye. 
presided the First Mate for the nonce superior to 
the skipper. 
The wind was up stream and we were bound 
down. What little tide - there was, so far from 
the sea, was with us. however, and after testing 
and adjusting weights until we had the proper 
trim we set out down the noble, if familiar, river. 
To a steam-boat sailor the Connecticut is full 
of snares and delusions. Wherever the channel 
is, be sure that it is the longest way ’round a 
bend and surely the shortest way there. But to 
the voyageur en canoe, moisture is all that is 
needed, so down the stream we leisurely plied 
our way, cutting corners, slipping inside of re¬ 
taining breakwaters and keeping the open where 
the river ran straight (which it seldom does), 
and the current helped us. 
It was a warm day. The wind increased in 
strength. Paddling became a serious work, 
though still an enjoyable one. Recourse was 
often had to the bottle—the one that cheers, for 
that which inebriates has no place where there is 
hard work to be done. The girls looked their 
sympathy—which is something, after all. And 
the miles slipped by—or floated. Sometimes they 
did not even do that, for with a sole paddler, a 
loaded craft, and a strong blast of a sou-wester, 
one might be thankful at times to hold one’s own. 
But the Red Gods were calling. We were to 
camp ’neath the greenwood tree—providing we 
could find it. We were not dependent on cara¬ 
vansary or for that matter on the elements, for 
our house was with us. If the need be we might 
stop then and there and make camp. 
The afternoon waned and our search for a 
camping ground became more pressing. On the 
one bank the land was low and suggestive of 
mosquitoes. On the other high and steep, too 
high to back our equipment up it. We stopped 
at a farm house, half concealed among the 
maples. Here we got good water and milk—- 
separate. Also information that a short distance 
below was good camping ground. And it was 
about time, for my Mate was getting skeptical of 
the existence of good camping spots along the 
river. 
We found one at last. It was a level bank 
perhaps ten feet above the water, in a scattered 
grove of maples. The floor was sand—left by 
the freshets doubtless, which meant good drain¬ 
age and a couch that would at least fit the body 
if it was not soft, for we skippers who had no 
cots. 
With fine team work we hauled out and un¬ 
loaded the canoes, got the fire going and water 
over for our coffee and pitched the tents. The 
girls meanwhile overhauled the larder, laid a 
table-cloth (at which we secretly smiled) and 
prepared generally for the piece de resistance. 
This was to be broiled frankforts a la Commo¬ 
dore and whether it were our ravenous appe¬ 
tites or by some accident the Commodore is 
really a great cook, albeit those dogs were good—- 
so good that they were executed to the last one. 
Now night had fallen. It covered the dish¬ 
washer’s multitude of sins. It brought out a new 
moon — and our friend Amos, as one of the Mates 
facetiously remarked, Amos? Amosquito. But 
Amos was a lonely swain and citronella put him 
to flight. 
Oh that magic hour about the camp-fire! Will 
it ever lose its witchery, its stimulus to remi¬ 
niscence, its haunting sadness? 
Stealthy noises about our 'tents! We were on 
the beach below. Bravely we started to investi¬ 
gate. The Devil’s horns, a breath of steam, a 
bellow and it was gone. With it went a guy-rope. 
The Mates had found something to worry about. 
But presently more came and went. Not devils 
but kindly mothers of men—pardon—kind read- 
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