I spent some weeks quite pleasantly in the “Garden City,” during which, the only very funny thing that happened to me, was my nearly getting drowned in Lake Michigan. My love of rowing led to this. On a beautiful moonlight evening, two young ladies, and a young gentleman who lived in the same house, went down with me to the lake, and we hired a row-boat.
We seated ourselves comfortably in the boat—I taking the oars—glided away from the shore, and were soon outside of the breakwater, where the full moon, rising in the eastern sky, made an endless path of quivering and shining silver over the limpid waves. The air was still, balmy and pleasant on the water. But the wind had been blowing that day, the waters were agitated, and the waves rolled considerably. When we were two miles from shore, we lay-to for a time; and while the waves rocked us about, in a playful manner, the two young ladies and the gentleman—I never sing—sung a beautiful song, which, the murmuring of the lake blending with it, and the beauty of the evening, rendered quite enchanting. When they ceased singing, one of the young ladies said:
“I wonder if I could row?”
“I have no doubt of it,” I responded; “did you ever try it?”
“No, never.”
“Then,” I rejoined, “it is possible you are an excellent rower, and have never given yourself an opportunity to discover it. Will you try it?”
“I’m afraid,” she said, timidly.
“Nothing to fear,” I urged; “the oars are stationary in the row-locks, and you cannot lose them. Moreover, there is no wind or tide, and the boat cannot run away with you.”
Thus encouraged, she said, “I believe I’ll try it.”
“Then let us exchange seats,” said I.