The River Seems Absolutely Barred With Sand Again; But
As We Paddle Down It, The Obstructions Resolve Themselves Into Spits
Of Sand From The North Bank And The Largest Island In Mid-Stream,
Which Also Has A Long Tail, Or Train, Of Sandbank Down River.
Here
we meet a picturesque series of canoes, fruit and trade laden, being
poled up stream, one man with his pole over one side, the other with
his pole over the other, making a St. Andrew's cross as you meet
them end on.
Most luxurious, charming, and pleasant trip this. The men are
standing up swinging in rhythmic motion their long, rich red wood
paddles in perfect time to their elaborate melancholy, minor key
boat song. Nearly lost with all hands. Sandbank palaver - only when
we were going over the end of it, the canoe slips sideways over its
edge. River deep, bottom sand and mud. This information may be
interesting to the geologist, but I hope I shall not be converted by
circumstances into a human sounding apparatus again to-day. Next
time she strikes I shall get out and shove behind.
We are now skirting the real north bank, and not the bank of an
island or islands as we have been for some time heretofore. Lovely
stream falls into this river over cascades. The water is now rough
in a small way and the width of the river great, but it soon is
crowded again with wooded islands. There are patches and wreaths of
a lovely, vermilion-flowering bush rope decorating the forest, and
now and again clumps of a plant that shows a yellow and crimson
spike of bloom, very strikingly beautiful.
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