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In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. ° 
myself, 1 peered out of the blankets 
and over the side of the canoe. It was 
five o’clock, and the sun was already 
high in the heavens. On all sides a 
sea of mud, nothing but mud, sprinkled 
with rocks of all sizes; not a sign of 
the ocean nor of the dry land! Beside 
ourselves not a living creature was in 
sight! My companions, hearing me 
stir about, got up, and with me silently 
gazed upon the desolate scene; then 
with one accord we burst out laughing 
and uttered the same ejaculation, short 
but appropriate. 
To the west, perhaps a mile away, 
there appeared to be a mud _ bank 
slightly elevated above the general flat- 
ness, upon which a few blades of grass 
were growing. There we might find 
some driftwood to make a fire, so we 
ploughed through the oozy mud and 
sand half way to our knees until we 
reached the bank sprinkled with coarse 
grass, and there, sure enough, was an 
abundance of driftwood. Our break- 
fast was assured. Beyond the bank 
lay another mud flat, two or three 
miles across, covered with tidal pools, 
and at the farther side a low shore- 
line, on which we could indistinctly see 
some bushes and scrub trees. Not an 
inspiring sight, to say the least! 
We returned to the canoe with an 
armful of wood apiece, and cooked 
breakfast on the mud. What a differ- 
ence a cup of hot coffee, a bowl of oat- 
meal, and a slice of bacon does make 
in one’s attitude toward life! We no 
longer saw through a glass, darkly, 
but had put on rosy spectacles. This 
was not such a bad place after all, the 
sun was shining brilliantly, not a 
cloud was in the sky, and the tide 
would return in only four hours. So 
we sat down in the canoe and waited. 
About ten o’clock we noticed a 
gleaming line on the horizon. As we 
watched it, fascinated, it seemed to 
move nearer; the tide was coming in. 
On it swept, like a vast yellow curtain 
drawn swiftly and silently over the 
landscape, till almost as if by magic 
the broad mud flat had disappeared 
and we were again afloat on the rip- 
pling, eddying ocean. 
After four hours of paddling and 
sailing, just at high tide we spied a 
short distance ahead a sandbar, the 
first we had seen, rising to the exalted 
height of two or three feet above the 
mud on either side. This was too good 
a camp ground to miss, so we ran in 
to cook lunch. And fortunate it was 
that we did so, for scarcely had we 
finished, when there appeared unmis- 
takable signs of a change in the 
weather. Heavy black clouds loomed 
in the east and the wind freshened. 
We hurriedly put up our tents on the 
highest portion of the bar, threw our 
It will identify you. 
duffle and some wood under the canoe 
and prepared for the worst. Suddenly 
the wind swung into the northeast and 
a wild storm drove down upon us, 
straight from the Arctic. While we 
were hurriedly piling rocks on the tent 
pegs our big freight canoe suddenly 
developed a “wanderlust” and cavorted 
into the swamp behind the bar. The 
united efforts of all three were re- 
quired to carry it into place again; 
then while the Captain held down the 
canoe, Tom and I dragged up a big 
driftwood tree with which to brace it 
against the gale. Then the rain de- 
scended and floods fell upon our fragile 
dwellings built upon the sand, the 
great drops rattling on the taut sides 
of the bulging tents like the sound of 
a machine-gun barrage. It seemed to 
us as we lay anxiously on our blankets 
that each minute the little tents must 
be torn to ribbons by the fury of the 
wind, but hour after hour passed, and 
not a stitch gave way. Never before 
did I realize so fully that it pays 
to purchase only the best camping 
equipment. Toward night, though the 
wind continued to blow with unabated 
violence, the rain ceased and we fell 
asleep. 
All at once I was half awakened by 
a sound like that of a distant freight 
train approaching. The very incon- 
gruity of the idea aroused me; I sat 
up and listened. Suddenly I realized 
what was happening. The tide was 
coming in, this time not gliding swift- 
ly and noiselessly over the flat, but 
rushing forward in an angry flood 
driven by the full force of the north- 
east gale. Visions of a tidal wave 
sweeping over our bar, carrying all 
before it, flashed through my mind. I 
hurriedly crawled out of the tent. The 
moon was shining brightly, inundating 
the desolate landscape with a cold 
white light. A quarter of a mile out 
to sea was a foaming, tumbling mass 
of water rushing in faster than a man 
could run. Bracing myself against 
the wind, I struggled down to the line 
of seaweed which marked the usual 
high-tide limit, and looked back at the 
tents. How short that sixty feet 
seemed! Would the tide stop before 
it reached them? On came the yellow 
flood, and as I retreated step by step I 
smiled grimly at the thought of Old 
King Canute and his courtiers. 
(Continued in September) 


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