We brush the dew from the heavy foliage as we pass along.
Lithe alders and heavy vines trail in the cool flood, and the fresh
evening air is filled with grateful harvest-scents and the perfume of
unseen flowers. And now our pretty painted lamp-board is fixed in its
place in the bow. The bright lamp throws its rich golden splendor
before us. The lamp is hid from us by the board which holds it. We
stand behind in the dark, and watch the overhanging sprays of foliage
making strange, grotesque shadows that move fantastically and sport and
clutch and writhe like wanton fiends, while the solid banks of foliage
themselves, reflected in the water below, look, one fancies, like
hanging gardens in the weird world to which the water is but a window,
and far, far down upon whose dusky floor the flowers are golden stars.
The canal over which I am now conducting my readers is one of the
oldest in the country. For many miles it is cut out of the solid rock,
following the windings of the river and clinging close to the contours
of the hills. The particolored rocks jut out in great square blocks,
which, in summer, are usually tufted with grass or flowers. There is an
indescribable air of coziness and safety about the amphibious life one
leads on such a canal.
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