did nothing but run insignificant rapids, until at last we came to despise them, so that we sometimes ran our canoes at them without searching for an opening, and for our pains always narrowly escaped upsetting, and always, too, had to get out and wade. The rapids of the Susquehanna teach as much patience and wariness as the logs of the Connecticut. You can manage both, like little children, when you take the trouble of finding the right way; otherwise they will crush your boat and you like the insensate brutes they are when opposed.
About ten miles above Towanda we entered on a memorable experience. The river was wide, about half a mile, and we heard an unusually loud rapid about a quarter of a mile ahead. It was noon, and we landed on a pretty shaded bank on the right, to eat our dinner. The day was hot, and the shade was luxurious. We gave plenty of time to cooking and eating and swimming and smoking, and, like Brer Rabbit, "enjoyin' the day that passes."
About two o'clock, a poor-looking fellow, in a poorer-looking old flat-bottomed boat, drifted past, going towards the rapid water. We asked him on which side the current ran.
"Don't know," he answered, sounding all his r's like a true native: "I was neverr hearr be
