Our captain (who holds the helm while the boy, his assistant,
is down in the cabin preparing supper) calls out suddenly, at the last
moment, "Whoa!" The well-trained horses instantly stop; the momentum of
the boat carries it on; the rope slackens, disappears in the water,
except at the two ends; the approaching horses step over it, and the
approaching boat glides over it. When the approaching "light boat" has
passed nearly or entirely over the rope our captain shouts to his
horses to go on: the rope tightens, and all is as before.
The parts of the canal lying between the locks are called "levels." On
long levels we could often see one or two boats far ahead of us and
going in the same direction. Nothing could be prettier than the thin
blue streamer of wood-smoke trailing out from the stovepipe of the
cabin-roof against the bright green of the foliage along the banks. It
told us the cheery news that the fragrant coffee or tea was a-making in
the cozy little cabin below. And now, when supper is done, the captain
brings up his guitar and plays sweet plaintive airs as we glide through
the quiet evening shadows. Night deepens: the stars come out one by
one, and are reflected in the smooth dark water below in dreamy, dusky
splendor.
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