748 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June 14, 1913 
Around Manhattan Island in a Canoe 
By CHARLES J. SODERBERY 
an apron full of nice ripe plums and insisted 
upon our taking them. “I only wish the apples 
was ripe, hut they won't be ready for two weeks 
yet,” she told us regretfully. 
We circled around a different way, passing 
two pretty little lakes — the Twin Lakes. How 
many Twin Lakes are there in this country, I 
wonder? Then we cut directly through the 
woods, coming out on the other side of Captain 
Eberly’s cottage, about 7 o’clock. 
They were seated at a table on the front 
porch, and we could just see their heads and 
shoulders above the railing, and both faces wore 
that contented, satisfied expression that comes 
after an enjoyable .feast. 
As we came around the corner of the cot¬ 
tage, my husband called to Captain Eberly, ‘‘Did 
you get your bass?” 
‘‘I did that,” the captain answered; “he 
grabbed the first frog I threw him. We've just 
finished eating him.” 
‘‘Good!” we all exclaimed. 
‘‘I am glad he kept the appointment,” I said, 
and my husband added, “you certainly had fresh 
fish for your supper.” 
New Publication. 
The annual issue of the Canadian Alpine 
Journa:! has just come to hand, and it is worthy 
of a reading by anyone interested in mammals, 
birds and flora. It contains the reports of the 
Smithsonian Institution expedition, which collabor¬ 
ated with the Alpine Club of Canada in a trip 
through the Mount Robeson region of British 
Columbia and Alberta. The collections were 
made by N. Hollister, assistant curator of the 
museum, and J. H. Riley, of the bird section 
of the U. S. National Museum. It devotes 
ninety-seven pages of mighty interesting and in¬ 
structive reading to the subject in hand, and is 
profusely illustrated with original plates. In 
addition there is a topographical map in color 
showing Mount Robeson and the mountains of 
the Continental Divide north of Yellowhead 
Pass. The cost of the book is $i and may be 
purchased from the Alpine Club of Canada, 
Banff, Alberta. 
Short Cut for Anglers. 
The construction of the Hampden Railroad 
running sixteen miles from Bondsville on the 
Central Massachusetts to Springfield, thereby 
connecting the Boston & Maine with the New 
York, New Haven & Hartford, has made pos¬ 
sible an avoidance of the transfer between the 
North and South stations in Boston for passen¬ 
gers going to and from New York, Boston and 
points in Maine and New Hampshire, thereby 
making time and convenience for anglers going 
into Maine. This route will be in operation June 23. 
Two new through trains will be put on be¬ 
tween New York and the North station, Boston. 
The running time will be six hours and stops 
will be made at Ware, Barre, Oakdale, Hudson 
and Waltham. Three new trains will also be 
installed between Northampton and Boston via 
Springfield. A change of trains in the North 
station will be necessary for through passengers. 
Under the new schedule a train will leave Boston 
for New York at ii a. m., and one will leave 
New York for Boston at 10:50 a. m. The night 
trains will leave New York and Boston at 11:33 
and 11:35 o’clock, respectively. 
R ecently I read an article in which Presi¬ 
dent Finley, of the College of the City 
of New York, described a walk taken by 
him around the water front of Manhattan 
Island, showing what is known to few—the wealth 
of country scenes as well as a diversity of city 
life; that farms, meadows, hills and valleys, as 
well as castles and tenements of brick and 
stone; that broad shaded lanes as well as 
crowded city streets; that little changed Indian 
haunts, as well as tliose of modern man, are to 
be found within the bounds of Manhattan 
Island. Although not in the same way, I made 
the trip around the island—I went in a canoe. 
At 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning I 
pushed away from the float of the Knicker¬ 
bocker Canoe Club at 167th street and the Hud¬ 
son, and paddled south. I dropped swiftly down 
the river with the ebb tide. I did not make a 
particularly auspicious start, for at 130th street 
the Fort Lee ferry boat narrowly missed me. 
A little more and I would have made the trip 
on foot, if at all. Gliding by the Recreation 
Pier, I passed along Riverside Park topped with 
its homes of brick and stone. Here, too, is the 
home of the motor boat. Everywhere the 
motor boat, with its rush and wash, the seem¬ 
ing enemy of the quiet, smooth-moving canoe; 
darting here and there, as if seeking to ex¬ 
terminate the red man’s craft. But everywhere 
they are, swarming all over the river and multi¬ 
plying every year. Truly, I seemed to be 
passing through the Little Italy and Little 
Germany of the water. 
All this was left behind at Seventy-second 
street, to which point from the south business 
has claimed the shore front from pleasure. 
Stern looking docks took the place of grassy 
slopes. V’essels of commerce took the place of 
boats of sport. Here the water began to take 
on a little roll. Plere I had my first view of 
the homes of industry; the Metropolitan Build¬ 
ing, Flat Iron Building, and Times Building. 
Only a glimpse, may be, but more impressive 
than a near by view. Down, down I went with 
the stream; Fifth-ninth, Forty-second and 
Thirty-fourth streets were passed in no time. 
At Twenty-third street another ferry boat came 
at me, but this time I dodged behind a pier. 
A ship’s yawl headed north, full of sailormen 
struggling against the strong tide, went by, or 
more properly speaking, I went by them. 
“Pretty soft for you,” one sang out. “You’re 
going the wrong way,” I replied. At Four¬ 
teenth street, a young boy spying me, ran out 
to the pier end, shouting, “Hi, fellers, look! 
Look at the Indian boat!” It seemed incredible 
that a canoe so well known a few miles up the 
river could be such a rare sight in these waters. 
But as I went down deckhands, longshoremen 
and fishermen would drop their work or pleas¬ 
ure and eye me keenly, withal kindly, but with 
a little suspicion. They seemed to feel that I 
had suddenly come from strange land in the far 
North. More and more the water became 
turbulent as I went down. Pier after pier sped 
by, ocean liners tied up to many. Looking up 
I saw “Carpathia”—ship of ships! 
As I approached the Battery, I began to 
think about the turn of the tide. It was all 
very well to be rushed south, but I did not 
want too much of a good thing. It was equally 
if not more important that I go at the same 
pace up the East River, and this could only be 
accomplished by the aid of the new incoming 
flood tide. I calculated that the tide would 
turn at i o’clock, but as the turn of the tide 
does not coincide with the time of high and 
low water as published—there being a discrep¬ 
ancy of apparently three hours, I thought it 
well to verify my calculation by those who 
ought to know. I succeeded only in satisfac¬ 
torily verifying that trait in human nature that 
a man will pass his days amid conditions the 
most prominent of which he will fail to observe. 
“What time does the tide turn?” I shouted 
to a dock watchman. “Pretty soon, I guess,” 
came the answer, while the tide then was still 
going out like a mill race. 
To another man who looked as if he might 
have nothing to do but observe and study the 
attraction of the moon, I repeated the question. 
“Quarter to twelve,” came the ready response. 
He must have forgotten his watch, for it was 
then ten minutes to twelve with the ebb tide 
showing no sign of slacking. 
A tug boat captain ought to know, and to 
a man eyeing me up from out the pilot house 
window of his boat fast to a dock I put the 
question again. “The tide will be running out 
until 1:15.” This seemed like real information, 
as it aproximated my computed time; but the 
subject had appeared so obtuse I thought it 
best to have two authorities. At this point I 
had made the Battery, and to save myself being 
carried to Coney Island, I swung around into 
the shelter of the south side of Pier i. Here 
was another watchman watching the water and 
my second authority I hoped. Again the ques¬ 
tion. He pulled out his watch, looked at it in¬ 
tently, and said, “I really don’t know.” 
“Ask over there,” he continued, waving his 
hand toward Pier A. Over there was the police 
boat “Patrol.” On deck (eyeing me up) were 
a colored chef and a policeman in uniform. As 
I understand there is a tide in the affairs of 
every policeman which, taken at the flood, etc., 
I thought the question would be easy for them. 
“Can you tell me the time the tide will turn?” 
I repeated. “Sure,” was the answer. They im¬ 
mediately went into consultation. After some 
deliberation the chef as spokesman sang out, 
“Three o’clock.” I found voice to say, 
“Thanks; but are you sure of that?” “Wait a 
minute,” he replied. He then went into his 
kitchen. Reappearing in a few seconds, he said, 
“No: I was wrong. It was 3 o’clock yesterday. 
It’s 4 o’clock to-day.” I said nothing, but my 
belief is that the chef consulted his bill of fare 
instead of a tide table. 
[concluded next week.] 
There are no slums in Omaha, and no 
tenements. There are a few flats and apartment 
houses The most of Omaha’s population live 
in their own cozy houses. 
