The Uncollected Prose of Pauline Johnson

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Canoe and Canvas

The canoeist does not ask for much when he takes an outing. A stretch of wild, pure water, a bit of canvas between him and the far silent stars, a pair of paddles, and that best of all friends, a light cedar cruiser, are about all young Canada demands for a princely holiday.

As a usual thing the canoeist is a solitary man, his sport does not necessarily depend on a participant, and on the back lakes and rivers one may frequently see the lonely voyageur holidaying with but his thoughts and the wild warm soul of the forest to keep him company. But in these latter August days, things don't look very solitary for our young sportsman; he is hobnobbing with his American cousins, who have brought themselves and their water craft to one of the most beautiful sites in the Thousand Islands, where, with canvas overhead and all hostility crushed forever underfoot, man meets with man in about as happy-hearted and unconventional a fashion as the most ardent believer in the universal brotherhood of the human kind could desire. Tourists on the upper St. Lawrence must feel perplexed to discover the meaning of that unusual array of tents, ninety in all, crowding together so amicably, the American and British colors floating side by side, braving the impartial gale that flings itself down the mighty throat of the paddle-scarred river, whose winds and waves, on-rushing, conquer all before them, save the everlasting fastnesses of the islands and that frailest, fairest of all the craft, the racing canoe. It must indeed be a heavy sea and howling tempest that will keep the plucky canoe sailor inside. He cares little for wind and weather, despises danger and laughs in the face of fate. What matter to him if the world stands still, so long as he gets out his butterfly boat, with its almost incredible spread of canvas wings, its chrysalis-like body cutting the waters like a knife blade, so slender, so thin, so almost intangible that he leaves no after-skirl of foam, not even a suspicion of ripple or swell?

And it is for such sport as this that one of the finest sporting organizations on the continent, the American Canoe Association, have met together for social intercourse and friendly contest on the blue stretches of the St. Lawrence, where rival competitors shake hands heartily, where men sail and paddle for the love of legitimate pastime, where ill-feeling dies a moment after its birth, and where, oh! rarest of all sportsmen's virtues, there is no such thing as mug-hunting.

Social life at an A.C.A. meet is a positive nerve tonic. Whatever the canoeing girl may be during the winter season, she is certainly the most laughter-loving, unconventional sun-burnt maiden that the physical culture faddist could desire to see. She joins her brother at the yearly meet as religiously as she wears tan shoes and flannel gowns during her weeks of outing, and, without doubt, canoeing is the coming outdoor pastime for girls. Tennis has held its own for many seasons, but each summer counts deserters from its ranks, who swell the list of pretty paddlers and diminish the number of sprained wrists, strained backs and vertigo.

At this meet, however, our Yankee sisters carry the palm. There is a popular prejudice in Canada that the ladies across the border are delicate, petted exotics given to bon-bon eating, extravagant toilets and indigestion, but we can honestly aver that the finest paddlers, the most sensibly gowned, healthy-appetited girls at the meet this year are the jaunty lasses from the land of the Stars and Stripes. It is a positive treat to see the little Yanks run out their canoes in the teeth of the rollicking breeze to ride the treacherous old river in racing craft that Ford Jones or Harry McKendrick would not despise. Like time and tide they wait for no man, but are independent, fearless and tanned as any boy in camp, and although much has been written and boasted of La Canadienne and her outdoor exploits she cannot at least at the A.C.A. hold a candle to little Lady America. We see La Canadienne living under canvas, it is true, but she dresses in silken blouses, wears tulle veils, carries la-de-dah walking canes and comparatively few of her ever attempt to paddle forth without a gentleman, and oh! everlasting disgrace, some of her cannot even steer a canoe! This won't do, girls; we have a reputation for healthy pastimes to sustain. Lay aside those fashionable frills and for the love of that most blessed of endowments given by your Creator, health, don't mimic the cripple or quarrel with your better, most sensible self just because the little goddess fashion is whimsical and at times despises so wickedly the beauty of perfect form and health in the human body.

Next week I hope to give those interested in sailing and paddling records a little glimpse over the distance that divides them from this paradise of paddlers, and would that all of my dear fellow canoeists could see through my willing eyes the splendid events of the regatta that I shall endeavor to convey to them through the far too inefficient medium of pen and pencil.