or people," said Moseley, "might as well not exist."
With which philosophic reflection, we spread our rubber blankets on the sand of the tent, over these our woollen blankets; and then, with a big fire blazing a few feet from the tent's mouth, we lay or sat for our coffee and cigars.
Throughout our trip this quiet smoking hour, each evening with a strange scene before us, was a most enjoyable part of the day.
We slept as if the night were an hour long, and we woke to plunge into the sweet unchilled water. We started without breakfast, hoping to reach Milford and the "famous cook" at an early hour.
The miles were long, and the river unendingly broken. It was down hill all the time, rift succeeding rift. Do what we could with careful steering, we struck again and again, and we were in constant danger of smashing boats or paddles. So common became the striking that we coined a word for it—"hung up." And we could not help laughing, when one struck, as we swept past and saw him grimly poling his canoe over a rock, or raising his feet over the gunwale, as he got out to haul her over. For this we had to be always ready; trousers tucked up, and canvas shoes on.
