bedding; a sort of wicker-work screen is sloped against the middle thwart, affording a delicious support to the back; and indolently in your shirt-sleeves, if the day be warm, or well covered in a blanket if it be chilly, you sit or lie on this most luxurious of couches, and are propelled at a rapid rate over the smooth surface of a lake, or down the swift current of some stream. If you want exercise you can take a paddle yourself. If you prefer to be inactive, you can lie still and placidly survey the scenery, rising occasionally to have a shot at a wild duck; at intervals reading, smoking, and sleeping. Sleep, indeed, you will enjoy most luxuriously, for the rapid bounding motion of the canoe as she leaps forward at every impulse of the crew, the sharp quick beat of the paddles on the water, and the roll of their shafts against the gunwale, with the continuous hiss and ripple of the stream cleft by the curving prow, combine to make a more soothing soporific than any sleeping-draught in creation. Dreamily you lie side by side-you and your friend -lazily gazing at the pine-covered shores and wooded islands of some unknown lake, the open book unheeded on your knee; the half-smoked pipe drops in your lap; your head sinks gently back, and you wander into dreamland, to awake presently and find yourself sweep ing round the curve of some majestic river, whose shores are blazing with rich crimson, brown, and gold of the maple and other hard-wood trees in their autumn dress. Presently the current quickens. The best man shifts his place from the stern to the bow, and stands ready with his long-handled paddle to twist the frail boat out of reach of hidden rocks. The men's faces glow with excitement. Quicker and quicker flows the stream, breaking into little rapids, foaming round rocks, and rising in tumbling waves over the shallows. At a word from the bowman the crew redouble their efforts, the paddle shafts crash against the gunwale, the spray flies beneath the bending blades. The canoe shakes and quivers through all its fibres, leaping bodily at every stroke. Before you is a seething mass of foam, its whiteness broken by horrid black rocks, one touch against whose jagged sides would rip the canoe into tatters and hurl you into eternity. Your ears are full of the roar of waters, waves leap up in all directions, as the river, maddened at obstruc The tion, hurls itself through some narrow gorge. bowman stands erect to take one look in silence, noting in that critical instant the line of deepest water, then, bending to his work with sharp short words of command to the steersman, he directs the boat. The canoe seems to pitch headlong into space. Whack! comes a great wave over the bow; crash! comes another over the side. The bowman, his figure stooped, and his knees planted firmly against the side, stands, with paddle poised in both hands, screaming to the crew to paddle hard, and the crew cheer and shout with excitement in return. You, too, get wild, and feel inclined to yell defiance to the roaring, hissing flood that madly dashes you from side to side. After the first plunge you are in a bewildering whirl of waters. The shore seems to fly past you. Crash! You are right on that rock, and (I don't care who you are) you will feel your heart jump into your mouth, and you will catch the side with a grip that leaves a mark on your fingers afterwards. No! With a shriek of command to the steersman, and a plunge of his paddle, the bowman wrenches the canoe out of its course. Another stroke or two, another plunge forward, and with a loud exulting yell from the bowman, who flourishes his paddle round his head, you pitch headlong down the final leap, and, with a grunt of relief from the straining crew, glide rapidly into still water. Through the calm gloaming, through the lovely hours of moonlit night you glide, if the stream is favourable and the current safe; the crew of French half-breeds asleep, wrapped in their white capotes, all but the steersman, who nods over his paddle and croons to himself some old Normandy or Breton song. Or, landing in the evening, you struggle back from the romance of leaf-tints and sunset-glows to the delicious savouriness of a stew of fat pork, partridges, potatoes onions, fish, and lumps of dough; and, having ballasted yourself with this compound, and smoked the digestive pipe, sleep on sweet pine-tops till you are roused by the steersman in the morning, when you pursue your way, not miserable and cross, as you would be at home after such a mess of pottage, but bright, happy, and cheerful; capable of enjoying to the full the glories of the daybreak, watching the watery diamonds from the paddleblades flashing in the sun, and listening to the echoing notes of some French-Canadian song. SOLDIER, REST! 1. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking! Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy streams of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 2. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan or squadron tramping. |