put
together, at least by the best builders, without any cement or white
lead, naked wood to wood, and depending only on close work for
waterproofing. And each pair of strips is cut to fit and lie in its
proper place without strain, no two pairs being alike, but each pair,
from garboards to upper streak, having easy, natural form for its
destined position.

The veneered canoes are very fine, for deep water; but a few cuts on
sharp stones will be found ruinous; and if exposed much to weather they
are liable to warp. The builders understand this and plainly say that
they prefer not to build fine boats for those who will neglect the
proper care of them.

The paper boat, also, will not stand much cutting on sharp stones, and
it is not buoyant when swamped, unless fitted with watertight
compartments, which I abhor.

The canvas is rather a logy, limp son of craft, to my thinking and
liable to drown her crew if swamped.

But each and all have their admirers, and purchasers as well, while
each is good in its way and I only mention a few reasons for my
preference of the cedar.

When running an ugly rapid or crossing a stormy lake, I like to feel
that I have enough light, seasoned wood under me to keep my mouth and
nose above water all day, besides saving the rifle and knapsack, which,
when running into danger, I always tie to the ribbing with strong linen
line, as I do the paddle also, giving it about line enough to just
allow free play.

I am not--to use a little modern slang--going to "give myself away" on
canoeing, or talk of startling adventure. But, for the possible
advantage of some future canoeist, I will briefly relate what happened
to me on a certain windy morning one summer. It was on one of the
larger lakes--no matter which--between Paul Smith's and the Fulton
Chain. I had camped over night in a spot that did not suit me in the
least, but it seemed the best I could do then and there. The night was
rough and the early morning threatening. However, I managed a cup of
coffee, "tied in," and made a slippery carry of two miles a little
after sunrise. Arrived on the shore of the lake, things did not look
promising. The whirling, twirling clouds were black and dangerous
looking, the crisp, dark waves were crested with spume, and I had a
notion of just making a comfortable camp and waiting for better
weather. But the commissary department was reduced to six Boston
crackers, with a single slice of pork, and it was twe