VOL. 66. NO. 27.

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A pair of paddles, a staunch little canoe
With one fellow rover in the bow, a laurch-
ing of the elfish craft on a river that tangles
itself into snarling rapids and rollicking
cascades—young Canada will ask no more
for a royal holiday. |

Little he cares for the dangers of boulder,
rock and eddy. With a confidence in his
prowess, and in the paddle that has never
failed him, he stows away his big athletic
form into that tiny canoe that creeps S0
gilently out into mid stream, obeying the
slightest twist of the broad maple blade,
that isbut a plaything in his iron grasp.
With what ease he kneels in his quivering
leaf-like barque, cautiously arranging the
cushions and kit, while an unconscious bal-
ancing movement controls his body even to
his finger tips,

He may well feel confident, well be self-
reliant. He is at his national sport, thé sport
that had its birth with the aborigines cen-
" turies before our forefathers ever inhaled
American air, a sport that was originally
pursued in that light and graceful craft the
birch-bark, before cedar ribs and butter-
nuts and basswoods were conceived in the
mind of man.

It is many, many years since the redman’s
bark canoe was sole cruiser upon the mighty
lakes and rivers of this continent, but the
sport still lives and thrives, and is becoming
nore general every year, although the craft

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treacherous but beautiful birch bark lostits
outlines in the unwieldy ‘“‘dug out,” which
the Indians made from a single log, by first
burning, then hollowing out the inside, and
forming rude curves at bow and stern, and
from this clumsy bud sprang forth the
flower of the present pretty little “Peter-
Soro,” which in its turn has been metamor-
phosed from a mere pleasure boat into one
of the most faultless racing machines and
sailing contrivances built in the present
day.

To see a group of canoes come rattling
down a race course, to watch the paddles
gleam like lightning flashes, to hear the
hurried dip, dip, dip of the blades as they
catch the water, to see the foam fly as those
exquisite little boats, frail as a flower, swift
as a whirlwind, cut the waters and shoot
past like arrows leaving an Indian’s bow-
string, is a sight quaint, bewitching, and ex-
citing as any sport that can be witnessed
within Canadian borders. '

I have heard men shout themselves hoarse
over a canoe regatt@, who could never get
up the enthusiasm to do more than a little
clapping while watching a four-oared crew
in the conventional, time-honored outrigger.

~ It isthe something born and bred in the
new world bone that clamors for new world
sports. It is the something about a canoe
- that smacks of American soil, of American
air, of ourselves, of our red ahorigines—that
. speaks in the whispering motion, the steal-
thy movement. We see in it the gunwale’s
curve, the free swinging slope*of the bow,
the silent but mighty force of the paddle
. blade. This is no imported pastime—it is
a child of our forest streams, of our inland
seas, and however long it may have been in
" reaching its majority it is to-day heir to the
crown of the magnificient kingdom of

- Canadian national sports.
Its possibilities are well nigh unlimited.

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{;; Tossed on the great lakes the sturdy little
2 craft will carry its canvas nobly—shooting
5% far inland rivers that seethe and boil about
s their boulders, the canoe slips like a water
*r snake through streams whose shores, like
2 granite teeth set in jaws of adamant, have
2z crushed their waters into channels so nar-
row that skiffs and oars with their exacting |

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looks indeed the gypsy whose life she emu-
lates.

In these days of physical culture fads
many a Canadienne has forgotten her rac-
quet for her paddle, and herein lies her
wisdom, for of all health-giving, graceful
pastimes for women, there is none richer in
physical and mental tonic, and lady canoe-
ists are seen all Canada through who can
handle a paddle as dexterously as the man-
tillaed senora fingers her fan.

To learn how popular the sport is becom-
ing one has but to glance at the work com-
pleted every season by the four great Cana-
dian manufacturies. These firms finish
between 500 and 600 canoes annually. Be-
sides the canoes made for home waters,
they ship to England, France, Holland, New
Zeal and, South America and all parts of the
United States. One firm has just completed
a splendid cedar-rib for the United States
Government by order of the Assistant State
Geologist in Wisconsin—for use on the
United States Geological Survey.

In the construction of an ordinary cedar-
rib canoe the greatest care and vigilance
must be exercised by the builder. The ribs
are first perfectly seasoned, then after be-
ing formed and clamped the canoe is placed
in a drying room of intense heat. It is then
soaked in oil, scraped, rubbed, polished,
until, a thing of beauty, it is “nested’” with
a number of its fellows, packed, shipped
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A FAIR CANOEIST.
itself has undergone a reformation, the | upon its

journey, and when launched
at last its decks perhaps will blister under a
tropical sun, its keel kissthe waters of the
Indian seas with lips that drew their
dibrous strength from far off American
earth and atmosphere.

However dear to the paddler may be the
stream that shyly slips beneath o’erreaching
boughs, the river that dashes itself in rage
and petulance between mighty rocks and
frowning granite shores, however alluring
may be the rapid swing of the paddle, the
rushing scamper past dangerous crags—he
must bow before the beauty of that most en-
chanting picture—the canoe that carries
canvas. A sight of the little craft, with its
butterfly body and outstretched, webby-
looking wings, is irresistible, even to him
who best loves the lazy cruise, or the fever
heat and excitement of running a rapid. I
have seen canoes only sixteen feet, long by
thirty-inch beam, carrying 160 feet of can-
vas. This could not be done without the
aid of a hyking-seat, nor would even this
valuable adjunct avail the sailor much, were
the hand at the sheet not steady and the
brain above it cool.

Dangerous? Oh! yes, it is dangerous, but
the big brawny fellow whose body hangs
half a yard out to windward cares little
whether he takes a dip or not. He is not
hampered with garments; Shoeless, sock-
less, hatless, clad in a skin tight jersey, and

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penurious shorts, he is a ready rival to the | far aloft. It was but a loon laughing weird-

fish beneath him, aund could match them at
swimming if need be. The accompanying
illustration shows ‘‘Canuck” with canvas
spread—the crack sailor of America. She
was the prettiest thing nfloat at the meet of |

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~ DETROIT,

and advancement have made “Canuck”
what she is, she still has within her the
blood of the birch bark. She has exchanged
her paddles for a center-board, her thwarts
for a sliding seat, aye, even her erstwhile
owner, the lithe, mocassined, copper-colored
Indian for a splendid, athletic, jerséyed
paleface, but identity is not lost in the
change; she is still a canoe—her owner still
a Canadian.

But for coasting and general crnising an
open basswood, sixteen feet long, thirty-one
inches beam, eleven inches deep is the thing.
It will stand a goodly amount of rough”
usage, and is light and easy to portage,
weighing but sixty pounds or thereabouts.
There is a knack in portaging that is ac-
quired only by practice, a trick of fhrowing;
the weight upon the shoulders, belew which'
weigbt is inclined to he injuric: #ad. prasy
duce a strain. But laborious as the tug al "
ways is, it never fails to enhance the dash
onward when one re-embarks. The head-
long tumbles over rotting logs, the tangles
in briary trails, are all forgotten with the
first dip of the paddle in the regained stream.
The remembrance of hard steep paths up
which we lugged our ponderous burden, of
tired arms and lacerated hands is soon lost

“CANUCK.”
in the purling murmur of the
rapids that are singing far to forward.

forever

Singing? Yes, if nature ever sings a
grand, sweet anthem, it is where her voice
wells up through the throat of that tumul-
tuous rock-girdled river in Northern: Onta-
rio, where the pine trees take up the song
caught from waters quarreling at their feet,
their mighty roots buried in irony fast-
nesses, seemingly as immovable as eternity.
I well remember the voice of those rapids
as they scrambled about, tossing pellmell
among a myriad of stones that would have
dashed our frail little craft into slivers had
we but given them the chance. There had
} lowing fu our teetih all i
the day before, but at sunset it subsided—
the wind has a way of dying with the sun
just when you are tired and have struck a
spot deep and open enough to hoist a lug-
sail. But that night we were glad to hold a
wake over the corpse, for as an animated
creation it had worked dead against us for
fifteen miles. We stretched canvas for the
night on one of the loneliest, wildest shores
I have ever set foot upon. There were six
of us. Mr. and Mrs. Chaperon had a big
striped tent and a dog. The university man
and his chum occupied something that
looked like a canvas coffin, while a dear
fellow-workwoman and I housed ourselves
in a luxurious affair six by eight.

The boys had a great time of getting the
tents up. There was not a bushel of earth
in the place, and the guy-ropes had to be
held down by enormous rocks, but we made
the fire for them and fried bacon and brewed
tea, which we drank without milk. It was
a strange night. Not until I was comforta-
bly rolled up in my gray blankets did I real-
ize the terrible silence of that vast forest en-
circling us or how dear was the voice of those
restless waters that laughed the long night
through, not twenty yards from where I lay.
At 2 o’clock I was awakened by the most
blood-curdling, uncanny cry I ever heard.
The chills capered down my back, and my
face grew hot and wet. That cry was never
human, I thought; it was not even material
—it was a demon or a spirit. I jumped out
quickly, pulling on my tans in case of
snakes—I hate snakes. I then crawled out-
side, determined to face the ghosts of all my
Iroquois ancestors, who were evidently pro-
testing against the invasion of their old-time
territory by my five comrades. I had barely
stepped into the night when again that hide-
ous call rang out faintly above me. I gave
a sigh of relief as I heard wings whizzing

Ui iy ) FECENICS, P IT PI e, S,
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ly, meaninglessly, through the night, as she
winged her southward way. How terribly
still the place was. The loneliness, aye, the
grandeur of loneliness,, coupled with that

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MICHIGAN,

ing one mighty stroke.
ders for a novigce, he stroked on the right
side.

prefer a single paddle.”

in that wildcat with a double blade.”

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THURSDA

breakfast, save that the university man pro-
duced from his gun cases a pot of marma-
lade we had been searching for the last two
days and at last had become ‘suspicious
about, ol , o

Once more aboard, the nearing voice of
the rapids charmed and enchanted us like &,
-siren’s song. I will never forget the hoot
Chaper gave when his how struck the first
dip. I was scared. I thought he haddumped
the provisions, his wife, tent, dog, sail and
self into the river.. To be sure,"they would
have turned up all right seven miles down
stream, but tiiat was not the order of the
programme, and I hate irregulavities. I
heard Mrs. Chaper squeak, and then I knew
they had shipped.  The Englishman knew
also, and he said: ‘“What'd’ yod want me to
do?” “Sit still and Rang on,”" I replied,
eaqichisy effs e A ST AT
ting a firmer grip on my paddled. Ia ‘an-
qther second we had saken the dip, and a

dos

"bucketful of water beside. - Fifty yards
further ‘down we jumped a low lying
boulder, the recurl of which dashed over the*

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deck and the Engliskman, who would have. i

been drefibhed‘ had he not been wearing the
rubber apron. He never swerved an inch,
not even when the keel scraped that nasty

rock and I thought we were over. Once

only did he move during those seven miles
of rollicking waters. 1t was when the
strong current got hold of the bow and be-
gan to swing her broadside, despite my ef-

forts to keep her plum ahead. But that’ .

healthy young Briton. just saved the situa-
tion by laying hold of his paddle and tak-
Wonder of won-

And when the canoe had cantered over

the course, there lay before us a wide,
placid lake, where the tired waters-slejit oo
the lullaby of a light wind springing up | *H
from the west. |
lug sail, while the Englishman remarked:

We ran in shore to hoist a
“For the first time I understand why you

“Yesl” I replied, ‘‘you could.not do much

The memory of how his masculine mu

cle helped me, was, and is still, dear to me— |/
dear, I think, as the dreamy motion of the [
canoe when the canvas filled and we two
lazy, indolent ones slipped across the lake
with the rapids’ sweet, wild laughter grow-
ing faint and fainter behind us,

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