The independent-reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1909-1955, 1923-07-19
fBv c. H. Nason)

close ana uepTeSoihB SoiipdTeu Will
the big outside to be viewed through
the windows. From out there the
sunshine that streamed In. the Gimp
ses of green growing things and the
irresistible charm of late spring time
made an alluring appeal. 1 had an
appointment with the business man.
ager, Mr.. Patten, for the evening.
We had planned. to study estimating
together.
Meeting him early In the afternoon,
| made the suggestion that we post
pone the engagement. and get out
into the air somewhere In his
usual happy way, he consented, and
made me glad by proposing a little
trip about which We had already
talked.
Accordingly at closing time, five
o'clock, he had lunch all packed. we
placed his shining new Kennebec
canoe on the running board of his car
and with his daughter as chauffeur
and a jolly party for company we
were of.
Up the north shore of the Kennebec
we Travelled. Over its hills and dales,
radiant In their fresh, spring raiment.
Passed the attractive, well-kept farms
with their broad expanses of newly
titled and planted land, white and
fragrant with blossoming fruit trees.
By pastures as green as the Emerald
Isle, and dotted with sleek looking
cattle and sheep. Through the his
toric old town Of Norridgewock, with
its rare specimens of old-fashioned
architecture, and its picturesque old
covered bridge.
Passed the stately old colonial
white in the rays of the sinking sun,
which was the 1home of the Misses
Rebecca and Safah Clarke, writers of
the popular children's stories of years
ago. How many of us can remember
the "Prudy," "Dptty Dimple," "Flaxie
Frizzle" and QAinnebassett" stories
of our CHILDHOOD?
About four miles above Norridge-
wock, at the foet of long hill near
the river, Mr.. Patten and l left the
car and our congenial company, car
ried the canoe down through the
fields, and embarked on our trip down
the river to Skowhegan. A slight
breeze was blowing down stream,
and that with the current, made our
work with the paddles very easy.
After going about mile, the dis
tant roar of quick waters reached our
ears. Mr.. Patten informed me that
"Bombazee Rips" (named for an
Abenakis chief were ahead. AS we
neared them, the roar increased and
the current grew swifter and swifter.
l, knowing mys companions reputed
daring and recklessness in canoe,
began to get nervous. but gritted my
teeth and made no comments (aloud)
Just then we were startled by a
loud cry from the right bank below
us. "Hey, there! Danger ahead!
You're dead men If you come down
through here tonight" Patten said
nothing. Neither did l. But the
fellow in my cpd. OF the canoe did
some tall thinning.
Then, greatly to my peace of mind,
he suggested that we paddle ashore
Guided by our cheerful informer, who
RECALLED us with stories of those who
had been drowned there In the years
gone by, we reconnoitered the banks.
1t didn't look bad, but we finally de-
cided to carry round"-that safety
first" WIS a good motto.
Below the RIPS" we launched our
craft again, babe our friend, Gillin,
good night and then opened our
lunch. My! But wasn't those eats
good!
Back over the RIPS" and beyond
hill the sun had broken through the
clouds, and was setting amid COM
bination of colors that would have
enthused clod. We turned the
canoe to face it and gazed upon
picture | will not soon forget.
The wind had died down, and the
river was like a mirror. The colors
of the dying day against the many
shaded green's of the trees that lined
both shores cast their reflection in
the waters. Down in the rivers
depths was perfect reproduction of
the indescribably lovely scene over
head.
Daylight faded away For a little,
clouds hid the sky. Bye and bye
they rolled away, and the moon and
stars shone in their glory. We
passed a cemetery on a hill The
friendly lights from farm-houses
greeted us. Down by Norridgewock
Meath the new railroad bridge and
the covered bridge. Passed a man
working on the shore. We hailed
him. How far is it to Augusta? He
laughed and replied: Guess you
won't make 1t tonight.!"
Once again. The murmer of the
river, the swish of the canoe as it cut
the quiet waters, the zip of the pad
dies. the song of the frogs, the chirp
of the crickets, the plaintive cry of
far-off whip-poor-w the splash of a
fish, was the missive to which we
padded.
We didn't talk much 1t was too
rare an occasion. Perhaps our
thoughts wandered back over the
years to the time of Benedict Arnold's
expedition against Quebec: to the
time of a good Father Rasle and the
Battle of Old Point Perhaps we
communed with the spirits of Mogg
Negone and his Indian companions
to their ancestors of the centuries
and ages before them. Perhaps we
wa Dderpd on into the coming Vpars