Athletics and manly sport . l simile was the most likelj^, and, at theend or muzzle, the vision was carried across threemiles of open and smooth water flashing to the sun. Mr. Moseley photographed the scene. It wasthe first time, in all probability, that this picture,incomparable of its kind, had ever been taken bya camera, though Tom Moore surely must havesketched it when he stood at this same feeder lockeighty-five years ago. At the request of the good-natured colored boyfrom Wallaceton we photographed the lockhouse,including him. He asked, could he have the pic-ture, and Mr. Moseley promise
Athletics and manly sport . l simile was the most likelj^, and, at theend or muzzle, the vision was carried across threemiles of open and smooth water flashing to the sun. Mr. Moseley photographed the scene. It wasthe first time, in all probability, that this picture,incomparable of its kind, had ever been taken bya camera, though Tom Moore surely must havesketched it when he stood at this same feeder lockeighty-five years ago. At the request of the good-natured colored boyfrom Wallaceton we photographed the lockhouse,including him. He asked, could he have the pic-ture, and Mr. Moseley promised to send him one. Send it, he said, with the importance of aserious child, as he named his many initials, toD. J. L. Griffin, care of Abeham. Then we started down the gun barrel toward thelovely bridge, the perfection of which remainedunbroken to the last. Here was no effort of land-scape art, but the living hand of nature completingits own picture and putting all art as gently outof question as the mountain does the CANOEING IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 397 A weirdly beautiful view opened on us as ourcanoes shot under the outer leaves of the Feedersbridge, and we floated at last within the marvel-lous ring of the lake of the Dismal Swamp. Vividly came to our minds the picture in Moorestouching ballad. Here, we thought, is the very scene, water, wood,and sky, that the poet saw generations ago. Thesetrees growing out of the dark flood; this weepingmoss hanging from the sad queenliness of the ele-gant cypress ; these deadly vines with theirpurple trumpet flowers that poison the very waterinto which they pour their tears; these beds ofreed and tangled juniper ; these white rootsround the border of the lake, where glide and coil the copper snake and the fearful red-belliedmoccasin. And here let the lapse of time be forgotten andthe association be renewed. There is no age inart. The song of a true poet is as unrelated as thesong of a bird or a brook. This is my excuse, if itbe neede
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, booksubjectgames, bookyear1890
