sat on
the dashboard between the canoes; and Master Thomas, Arthur, and I were
perched upon the ends of the planks with our feet dangling over the
road. It was not exactly what one would call an elegant equipage, but
it rolled along.

The road was of an uncompromising straightness. It lay across the
slightly undulating sandy plain like a long yellow ruler; and on each
side were the neatly marked squares and parallelograms of the little
truck farms, all cultivated by Italians. Their new and unabashed frame
houses were freshly painted in incredible tones of carrot yellow, pea
green, and radish pink. The few shade trees and the many fruit trees,
with whitewashed trunks, were set out in unbending regularity of line.
The women and children were working in the rows of strawberries which
covered acre after acre of white sand with stripes of deep green. Some
groups of people by the wayside were chattering merrily together in the
language which Byron calls

"That soft bastard Latin
Which melts like kisses from a woman's mouth."

It was a scene of foreign industry and cheerfulness, a bit of little
Italy transplanted. Only the landscape was distinctly not Italian, but
South Jersey to the core. Yet the people seemed at home and happy in
it. Perhaps prosperity made up to them for the loss of picturesqueness.

At New Prussia the road was lifted by a little ridge, and for a few
minutes we travelled through another European country. Two young men
were passing ball in front of a beer saloon. "Vot's der news?" said one
of them in a strong German accent. We were at a loss for an answer, as
it was rather a dull time in international politics; but Master Thomas
began to say something about the riots in Russia. "Russia hell!" said
the young man. "How's der ball-game? Vas our nine of Hummingtown ahead
yet?" We could give no information on this important subject, but we
perceived that New Prussia was already Americanized.

A mile or so beyond this the road dipped gently into a shallow,
sparsely wooded valley and we came to a well-built stone bridge which
spanned, with a single narrow arch, the little river of our voyage. It
was like a big brook, flowing with deep, brown current out of a
thicket, and on through a small cranberry bog below the bridge. Here we
launched and loaded our canoes, and went down with the stream, through
a bit of brushy woodland, till we found a good place for luncheon. For
though it was long past noon and