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DETROIT FREE PRESS
THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 1893
THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS
BY E. PAULINE JOHNSON

Three taut little basswood canoes, manned at the stern, maidened at the bow, six
gleaming, agile paddles——-and before us a run of ninety—-seven miles on one of the most
rollicking rivers in Ontario; who would ask more than this for a typical outing in merry
May—time? For days and days beforehand old cruisers had vainly tried to dissuade us from
going. By "us" I mean the three girls who were mad enough to attempt running those wild
rapids while the water was at flood hight, and the river swollen by recent rains until its fury
was threatening enough to lessen the desire for a spring cruise even in the sturdy hearts of
some of our best club men. But what we three girls won’t attempt in the way of an outdoor
frolic, and the tasting of genuine Canadian sport is not worth the planning.

That canoeing is the most popular sport in Canada to—day is beyond dispute, and few
are the black lakes, rivers and forest streams that have not mirrored paddle and Peterboro sail
and bivouac; but never before has that stretch of the Grand which gallops between Elora and
Brantford been run by ladies. Old canoeists told us we would never do it. They told our boys
they would regret taking us before the first night closed in; that the cruise was too long, too
arduous, too hazardous; but our three jolly comrades stood by us and declared that we girls
would "pull through" in "better shape" than many of the men they had piloted down that wild
old river, that is one long series of swirls and rapids, from the moment it breaks into the
Grand Falls at Elora until it scampers past the pretty little city of Brantford, nearly 100 miles
distant. In consequence of this [?] by rail to [?] shipping our canoes and kit the day previous.
Our three craft were the regulation sixteen-foot basswoods, with thirty—-inch beam and good,
high—sweeping bows. Not one of them weighed over sixty-five pounds and with our kit,
which was light and consisted of but absolute necessities, our entire outfit was but a
feather-weight compared to that usually carried by novices at river cruisings. But we were all
old hands and very old campers, and about as jolly a crowd as you could get together— just
six of us, Mr. And Mrs. "Benedict, " "Nip" and "Tuck, " the two boys (who had cruised in a
Rice Laker from the Brantford boat house to [?] Second Street, New York City, only a year
or so ago) and my own girl friend, Jeanette, and myself.

Moreover, we were a religious crowd; at least a tendency developed that way when
before retiring in the quaint old-time hotel at Elora, we sighted ominous lead—colored clouds
sliding slowly up from the southwest. The prayers for fair weather that ascended from our
usually thoughtless party would have done credit to a better cause. Nevertheless, despite our
reformation, at daylight on the long looked for morning. I

"Waked to the sound of rain, "

supplemented by the boys’ voices clamoring up the chaperon’s door across the corridor and