The river that we sail Is the pride of our country; The women that we love Are the fairest upon earth. Row, then, row! Row, then, row!
Toilsome is our way, Dangerous is our way; But what matter? Our trust is in Providence. Row, then, row! Row, then, row.
The river that we sail Is the pride of our country; The women that we love Are the fairest upon earth. Row, then, row! Row, then, row!
Joy, joy, our home is not far; Love-smiles are waiting us; And we shall be happy! Happy, happy, happy. Bend to your oars! Bend to your oars!
Loud, loud, let our voices be, Echoing our gratitude; Many leagues have we voyaged, But soon shall we be at rest. Bend to your oars, brothers! Bend to your oars!
Joy, joy, our home is in sight; Love-smiles are waiting us, And we shall be happy! Happy, happy, happy! Home! Bend to your oars! Bend to your oars!
The same canoe in which I explored the upper thousand miles of the Mississippi, also bore me in safety around the shores of Lake Superior: first, eastward, along the northern shore, then back again to Fon du Lac, and afterwards along the southern shore to the Apostle Islands. Delighted as I was with my canoe wanderings on the head waters of the Mighty River, I am constrained to yield the palm to Superior. For weeks did I explore its picturesque bays and extended sweeps of shore, following the promptings of my wayward will, and storing my mind with its unnumbered legends, gathered from the lips of my Indian companions. I seldom took a paddle in hand, unless it were for exercise, but usually employed my time, when the weather was calm, by reading or sketching; and often, when the sunshine made me sleepy, have been lulled into a dreamy repose, by the measured music of the oars, mingled with the wild chanting of the voyagers. It was the custom with my companions, whenever they caught me in those lucid intervals of joy, to startle me, by a piercing whoop, which invariably announced a race upon the watery plain. And then, indeed, was it a most exciting spectacle to witness the canoes gliding to the destined goal, almost as swift as “an arrow from a shivering bow.” Whenever I expressed such a desire, the party came to a halt upon the shore, and then it was that I mounted the headlands to gather berries, or obtain a bird’s-eye prospect of the Lake. At times, the roar of a distant waterfall would fall upon the ear, and I was wont to beg an hour’s furlough for the purpose of catching a dozen or two of trout in the waters of a nameless stream. But my chief employment, whenever we landed, was to gather agates and pebbles of loveliest hue. In many places the gravelly shores were completely covered with them; and often, when attracted by one of a particular color or an unusual size, and when deceived by the marvellous transparency of the water, have I found myself far beyond my depth in the sleeping waves, which event was about the only one that could bring me to my senses. Many a time and oft, like a very child, have I rambled along the beach for miles, returning to my canoe completely loaded down with my treasures, which I sometimes carried with me on my journey for a hundred miles, and then threw away to make room for others which I thought still more beautiful. Delightful, indeed, were those summer days on the bosom of that lonely lake. They are associated with my treasured dreams, and I cannot but sigh when I remember that I may never be privileged to enjoy the like again. My reason would not stop the tide of civilization which is sweeping to the remote north and the far Pacific, but if the wishes of my heart were realized, none but the true worshippers of nature should ever be permitted to mar the solitude of the wilderness with the song of Mammon.