]\Iay i8, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
625 
Along Enchanted Ways 
T he glide of the canoe between the over- 
.hanging foliage, the dip ‘of the paddle and 
the tinkle as the bright drops fall from the 
risen tip, so the journeying canoeist skims along, 
always enjoying new scenes and appreciating new 
sensations the like of which cannot be named in 
By ROBERT PAGE LINCOLN 
the branches as they fall low over the waves— 
here is the greater freedom, the supreme, the 
mighty. 
The canoeist has for his world what the man. 
afoot has for the open road. His is the open 
way of the blessed streams where the sunlight 
love to think of when we look at the sun; the 
shirt open at the throat and the feet easefully 
touching the ribbed bottom in every degree of 
comfort. Of that grandeur let me speak in 
terms of praise, little as I may have at my com¬ 
mand in that line to act upon. But it is the 
GOING THROUGH A LOG CHUTE. 
LOG CHUTE. 
any other form. With the return of the summer 
season to the land after a winter of dreaded 
snows and cold northern gales, the very thought 
of summer is sufficient to arouse the mind from 
its dormant state. The spirit craves to be fed 
with experiences, and these experiences are best 
enacted where nature is, and where the silence 
lies complete and unbroken. What then is the 
fascination that arises so readily when the slen- 
hlters down through the branches and lingers 
upon some dark pool; where the leaves gently 
rustle and where the cool shadows wash the 
cares away from his tired soul. No more tired. 
.A,h, no. It is as though he has stepped from 
the prison cell and into the glory of God's own 
infinitude, held in the embrace of nature, sweet 
and compromising nature who knows no sorrow 
but only the joy and the gladness, only the smiles 
divinity of it, the superbness, the illimitable vis¬ 
ions of purity and tranquilitude; all put together 
and gifted to the man who plies the paddle, be 
it with grace or be it with the faultiness of the 
amateur. 
It is all the poetry of out-of-doors. The true 
spirit of summer found its ternal abiding place 
in the heart of earth’s minions. By those little 
rivers, those infinite streams, let me wash what 
A NATURAL HAZARD. 
der craft slips along and the paddles act their 
part? Who can tell. Of that infinite fascina¬ 
tion it holds much of the world’s wonderful 
store of intrinsic value—value such as is not 
bought in dollars and cents, but can only be 
purchased by the application of the body and 
soul to that wonderful agency opened by the 
Igdy of moods. I say there is a wealth of godli¬ 
ness attending the progress of the canoeist. His 
is the supreme joy. For along those smaller 
streams, in the swirl of the greater rivers and 
rapids, the splash of the water and the dip of 
and the laughing words, only the feeling and the 
blessedness that are always to be found ne.xt 
to her bosom. What of the ease and simplicity 
connected with the progress of the canoeist? Ah, 
it is sublime! The dip of the paddles and the 
gentle lift and moment of wait ere they touch 
water again—it is the sweet abandon of care and 
all those fretting factors that serve to unbal¬ 
ance the rules of thoughtful and considerate 
nature. Loose clad with arms bare to the mercies 
of the sun, which is not necessarily the baking 
heat of torrid August, but that warmness we 
GOOD NIGHT. 
of stain I have have in me; let me always 
glimpse the sun between the boughs; let me al¬ 
ways feel the coolness as I drop my hands down 
into the passing elixir of the earth—truly the 
wine of God poured from the beaker of heaven 
into the infinite courses. Always the suns of 
summer, always the abandon and ease, the for¬ 
getfulness of all save that the body is respond¬ 
ing in its every agency to the fruitfulness of 
the serene day. 
One day or another it is the same. What of 
the showers that fall? Is it not by grace of 
