h of the wind in our faces was tonic, and we could almost persuade
ourselves that there was fragrance in the occasional whiffs of
gasoline.

We soon came to an opening in the shore to starboard where the James
receives one of its chief tributaries, the Chickahominy, memorable for
its association with the first American romance. Though the tale is
perhaps a trifle hackneyed, yet the duty of every good American is to
listen whenever it is told. So here it is.

Of course the hero was Captain John Smith. How that man does brighten
up the record of those old times! Well, one day the Captain with a
small party from James Towne was hunting in the marshes of the
Chickahominy for food, or adventure, or the South Sea, or something,
and some Indians were hunting there also; and the Indians captured the
Captain. They took him before the great chief Powhatan; and as John lay
there, with a large stone under his head and some clubs waving above
him, the general impression was that he was going to die. But that was
not John's way in those days; he was always in trouble but he never
died. Suddenly, just as the clubs were about to descend, soft arms were
about the Captain's head, and Pocahontas, the favourite daughter of the
old chief, was pleading for the ever-lucky Smith. The dramatic
requirements of the case were apparent to everybody. Powhatan spared
the pale-face; and our country had its first romance.

To be sure, some people say that all this never happened. Indeed the
growing skepticism about this precious bit of our history, this
international romance that began in the marshes of the Chickahominy, is
our chief reason for repeating it here. It is time for the story to be
told by those who can vouch for it--those who have actually seen the
river that flows by the marshes that the Captain was captured in.

On we went with tide, wind, and engines carrying us up the James.
Dancing Point reached sharply out as if to intercept us. But the owner
of those strong dark hands that happened to be at the wheel knew the
story of Dancing Point--of how many an ebony Tam O'Shanter had seen
ghostly revelry there; and Gadabout was held well out in the river.

Again, how completely we had the James to ourselves! We thought of how,
even back in those old colonial days, our little craft would have had
more company. Here, with slender bows pushing down stream, the Indian
canoes went on their way to trade with the settlers at James Towne;
their car