"What is this name of the country we are now passing?" I inquired of one of the boatmen who joined me about the first hour of morning.
"Why sir, this is called the Cedar Swamp," answered the man, to whom I handed a cigar, in order to retain his society and create more smoke, weak as was the defence against the hungry swarms surrounding us on all sides.
"We have not much more of this Cedar Swamp to get through, I hope?" inquired I, seeking for some consolatory information.
"About fifty miles more, I guess," was the reply of my companion, accompanying each word with a sharp slap on the back of his hand, or on his cheek or forehead.
"Thank Heaven!" I involuntarily exclaimed, drawing my cloak closer about me, although the heat was killing; "we shall after that escape in some sort, I hope, from these legions of musquitoes?"
"I guess not quite," replied the man; "they are as thick, if not thicker, in the Long Swamp."
"The Long Swamp!" I repeated: "what a horrible name for a country! Does the canal run far through it?"
"No, not so very far, only about eighty miles."
"We've then done with swamps, I hope, my friend?" I inquired, as he kept puffing and slapping on with unwearied constancy.
"Why, yes, there's not a heap more swamp, that is to say, not close to the line, till we come to within about forty miles of Utica."