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12

One fat little girl about three looked like a doll. One of the young watchmen off the SOUTH AMERICAN was paddling a canoe he'd borrowed and upset it, soaking his only uniform. Later, he appeared on board attired in an old, faded blue shirt and sailor pants until he could get his uniform dried and pressed. Rog was very much concerned over this. In fact, I think Rog was fond of the crew and they of him. We have two photographs of Bab and Rog with two Sicilian deck hands and one of them is included herewith, the other being framed and hanging in our den. These men were swarthy and jolly, spoke broken English, and wore pale-blue uniforms with white caps. They seemed to love children and probably had plenty of their own.

In the afternoon, we turned toward the west again in anticipation of our overnight run to Mackinac. We were thoroughly sold on the beauty of Georgian Bay by this time. My memo says "The long channels that swing up among the islands remind one of the coast of Norway." Not having been to Norway at that point, I don't know just how I felt this way; really, it isn't much like the coast of Norway because it isn't rugged enough. I think its charm lies in its untouched look, the dark-green forests coming right down to the water, utterly unspoiled and clean and fresh. Looking out over some of the great stretches of the Bay, the blue of sky and water mingled at the horizon. The wind made many pale-blue paths across the darker blue of the water, winding and swinging in long curves, sometimes streaking parallel to the horizon. Light-brown, rocky islets lay about in perky groups, and occasionally the white shaft of a lighthouse pointed at the blue sky. There was scarcely a cloud but a faint lavender band of haze hung above the horizon in the northwest. White gulls soared along behind us, their sleek, streamlined bodies glistening, black-tipped wings motionless as they glide, bank and climb. There is the soft murmur of the gentle wind, the continuous waterfall sound of the waves breaking behind the prow. The air is completely clean. The blue water is rippled only enough to catch the sun and sparkle like millions of gems in the ever-changing pattern of light and shadow. Far away, the occasional flash of a white sand dune in the haze, betrays the mainland. This world is calm and warm and beautiful. The gulls race with us now, their black-tipped, gray wings fringed with silver, yellow bills poking inquisitively this way and that as they pass us. Their wings are beautifully shaped in sweeping reverse curves. Later, the sunset inflamed the northwest, shading away through violet and lavender to a dull slate where night crept up on us from the east. The reflection of the after-sunset sky was like many rich pools of oil, coming and vanishing on the restless surface of the dark-blue water. Still later, coming out of Georgian Bay into Lake Huron, the moon was brilliant, making a dazzling path over the water. On either side a dark cape ran out into the water, silouetted blackly against the moonlit sky as if we might have been entering another world. The path of moonlight

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