90 
7 O R K S T AND STREAM 
Along The Shores to Somewhere Else 
The Inert Waters of the Canal 
HE morning sunlight of a per¬ 
fect day gleams about us as we 
leisurely paddle along the quiet 
stretohes and around the bends 
of the serpentine course, each 
turn bringing new vistas of 
wooded shores to view, some 
sections changing to far reach¬ 
ing savanas of cut-over timber lands. 
Idle and languid with paddles inboard we drift 
past a humming saw-mill with its log-booms 
stretching along the shore, its stack of shingles 
silhouetted against a background of evergreens, 
while the sweet scented odor of burning cedar 
reaches us from a huge knoll of slowly burning 
saw-dust beyond the mill. 
Idleness is oft to be courted amid such se¬ 
cluded by-ways; but this inaction on our part is 
plain rank laziness, which latter state of being, 
is brought to our notice by the canoe drifting 
in among the grasses of the opposite shore, 
where we not only see, but hear in the shallow 
red cedar water: 
Shrimps and shrimp’ses by the dozen’s, 
Fathers, mothers, aunts and cousins, 
sporting amid the roots on the hard sand 
bottom. 
Now shrimp means bait and bait means fish, 
so we get busy with the shrimp, and out on the 
river again we get out our tackles and as the 
canoe drifts we cast oversides for perch, and 
catch chub. Well 
Now ox is beef and pig is pork, 
And sheep is oft lamb on the dish; 
But with a full creel, whether perch, chub or eel 
—BI’ gosh darn! By gum! Fish is Fish. 
It is past the noon hour as we reach the lock 
of the Albemarle and Chesapeake Canal, in its 
sequestered setting amid a sparsely wooded 
grove of hard woods and the picturesque 
domicile of the lock-keeper. We dodge it by the 
advice and direction of our friends at t'he bunga¬ 
low. Turning our bow to port, our paddles dip 
the tortuous thoroughfare through a marsh for 
By Alfred P. McArthur. 
(Continued from the January Forest and Stream-) 
quite a mile where we find a boat-slide, used by 
the owners of small boats of the vicinity. Here 
we portage to the canal above, thereby saving a 
ridiculously high fee charged all style of shipping 
or small craft locking through. 
The canal is a quiet, seldom frequented bit of 
water, stretching straight away almost due east 
for eleven miles. Its sandy banks are confined 
by old piling and sheathing fast decaying, with 
no sign of recent repairs. Its one time tow-path 
on the north bank is choked with second growth 
timber and underbrush, through which an array 
of slender posts sustains a single telephone wire 
throughout its length. 
Paddling a mile to the first draw-bridge span¬ 
ning the canal and disembarking, we learn we 
have reached Great Gate. A granite shaft on 
the South shore denotes the fact and also that 
a battle was fought on the grounds during the 
Revolution. Across the dusty road, the cus¬ 
tomary general store and post office, minus 
paint, stands on its low piles above the mud of 
the road-side. The rural mail has just arrived 
and the postman is reading a newspaper to a 
group of natives whose teams cluster about the 
edge of the dingy porch. 
For the time being we are done with the news 
A Road to Somewhere Else. 
of the world of whatsoever kind and tarry only 
long enough for Montie to procure a bit of 
Tuxedo. 
About three quarters of a mile further on we 
glide beneath the dark heavy iron structure of a 
single track railroad draw on the other side of 
which in the sunlight we pause a moment to 
c'hat with an old negro mammy who is fishing 
from the bridge abutments. She is struck with 
amazement at the apparent exposure of our arms 
and shoulders, our upper structure being clothed 
in naught but swimming shirts. “Yu’uns ‘ill sure 
don’ tu’ ailing, if yu’ don’ gone ’kiver up,” is 
her parting advice as we paddle on our way. 
No breath of air stirs and the sun’s rays are 
as mellow as a June afternoon. 
In a small cove formed by the giving way of 
the canal timbers, we rest the paddles for a spell 
and refresh the inner man with luncheon from 
the chest. How quiet 1 How still! the tran¬ 
quility of nature for the time is impressive. No 
twig or dry leaf moves, no chirp or song of 
bird, no moving cloud in the sky. The inert 
waters of the canal a polished mirror, reflect 
the sky and the gaunt poles and bare limbs of 
the trees on either bank, edged by the russet 
and bronze leaf covered shores. The hush of 
Nature’s own cathedral is over all as we partake 
of her bounties. 
Three miles further on we reach Seven Mile 
Draw—a yellow flimsy structure, an unadorned, 
though useful span across the water-way. At 
the pump of the negro tender’s squalid quarters 
we replenish our water supply, but later discard 
its sulphurous offensiveness for the purer Cedar 
water of the canal. 
Disburdened of effort, our paddle strokes un¬ 
dulate the smooth surface of the canal, stretch¬ 
ing its narrow ribbon-like scope straight away 
before us for miles. But with the lengthening 
shadows of approaching evening, a breeze from 
the east sets all in motion, the naked boughs 
swaying along the sky line, fanning the water 
into a sparkling avenue of agitated wavelets, 
driving myriad of dead dry leaves in scattering 
