a stiff breeze that whistled up in the west and struck us full astem. Of course, we hoisted
canvas. The Benedicts in the pe—de—queu ran up a scrap of a lateen and swerved around the
bend of the river before we had time to ship our masts. Nip and Jeanette in the Nora, Tuck
and I in the Wild Cat, each ran out a lugsail that caught the breeze in the twinkling of an eye
and we scurried out nose to nose, as pretty a pair of white swans as you could wish to see. I
lounged forward while Tuck (Friar Tuck as we called him, because he bore no resemblance
to a divine) managed the steering blade and the sheet at the same time, quite a wonderful feat
in such stiff weather. We cut through some minor rapids like materialized lightning, splitting
the spray into two gauzy wings over our bow deck and otherwise raising excitement enough
to warrant a cautionary shout from Nip, who was spinning away helter-skelter, narrowly
escaping various boulders and half the time scaring the wits out of his bow ballast. Finally
the gale blew a regular rip—snorter and with difficulty we lowered canvas, for a bend in the
river brought us dead against the wind, which blew straight into our teeth, and then we knew
that meant hard work. The sails stowed, we took to the paddles, and for an hour I never put
in harder work. We "sawed wood" right along, but the canoe barely moved. Such a head
wind blows only once a lifetime.

Benedict assumed for himself the position of Duke of Wellington. "Gentlemen," he
said (we were all "boys" on that cruise) “your dinner lies at the other side of that mile
bend."

We earned that dinner.

After noon the breeze abated somewhat, and we sailed along in comparatively calm
weather until in rounding a bend we sighted the pretty hamlet of Doon nestling in its
hillsides. One may not find this village on every map of Canada, but amongst bohemians, it
is a household name, inasmuch as artists have made it a sort of summer breathing spot, where
nature and study blend harmoniously. Before reaching the village we drifted by a magnificent
elm tree that is destined to become famous in Canadian art, inasmuch as one of the most
gifted landscape painters in the country has reproduced it on canvas under various aspects,
until it is known far and wide as "Watson’s Elm." It is the most princely thing all along the
river, and with its grace and grandeur is a fitting sentinel to guard the river portals of Doon,
the pillow of art.

To give an idea of the quaintness of this village one has only to mention the primitive
contrivance the villagers have of conveying letters and parcels across the river, which here is
bridgeless. A stout wire cable stretches from shore to shore, over which slips a huge wicker
basket, worked by the simple method of "pulling a string. " And this meets all the simple
demands of the villagers. We touched at the bank for a half hour, and had an all too brief
glimpse into an artistic home. Luckily it was the [?] Carl Ahrens [?] child painting.
Picturesque as ever, surrounded with home affections and effects, the rising artist gave us a
welcome that lacked no warmth, and when we left two artists joined us in their tiny bark
canoe, accompanying us some four miles down stream. We bade them good—bye with regret
and skimmed off, putting into pretty, greystone-Galt at 5 o’clock that afternoon, since
realizing that we had run thirty—three miles since morning.

A night in a good hotel was refreshing, though we all agreed that the Dutch inn of last
night’s experience was the jolliest place for canoeists. What though they gave you a feather
bed to sleep on, and another [?], their cheer was of the best, and we felt homesick for the
white, bare floors and the curious broken English of mine host.