Half a day’s paddle from the lake brought us to the village of Clay, or New Bridge, as it is commonly called. This place was old and ruinous, but presented a most picturesque aspect as we came suddenly upon it, perched on the hillsides on either side of the river.
The unpainted houses, stained a dingy gray by the weather, were embowered in thick masses of apple and plum trees, and down by the water stood a forsaken warehouse with a sunken canal-boat before its doors. We spent a Sunday within a mile of the town, and rainy weather kept us some days longer in the vicinity, so that we had a fine opportunity to study the old place. “God forsaken,” the farmers called it. It was a sort of supply depot for passing canalers and certainly not a flourishing port, but perhaps possessed an artistic interest in proportion to its ruin.
“If you want any good eatin’ apples, you’ll find ’em under them trees, an’ there’s green-corn in the garden beyond; help yourselves.” This hospitable remark was made by a farmer who came to see our sketches, and it was accompanied with a handful of ripe tomatoes and cucumbers.
“LANDED FOR SUPPLIES.”
This sort of open-handedness had become a feature of the cruise, and on our last day on the river we gave a lock-tender a goodly supply of superfluous vegetables. In fact, our living expenses were made so small by the bounty of the people on whose land we camped, that we felt like distinguished foreigners who had been given, not the liberty of the town, but of the whole country.
A few miles below Clay the Seneca unites with the Oneida River, the two forming the Oswego at Three River Point, and by following this broad stream we reached the milling town of Phoenix. We were delayed here by a short portage, but again in the canoes the stream carried us on, now heaving under the boats as its deep volume eddied over hidden rocks, or spreading out into placid stretches that seemed to have no perceptible current.
At one point we were whirled through an eel-weir rift and well spattered with spray; and again, while passing under a bridge, a sunken pier caught one of the canoes as a submerged monster might snatch a fly, but fortunately with no damage to the boat. A muskrat, drawing a long line across the stream, ended it suddenly with the quotation mark of his tail as our bows came almost on him. Then the river grew broad and still, and paddling on we entered the canal at Fulton. I had an embarrassing adventure here. I had landed for supplies, and was again getting into the boat that lay some four feet below, when the uneasy craft slipped under the docking, carrying my feet with her, leaving me hanging by the elbows and shouting for Simpson, who was some distance away.
The muddy water of the canal never seemed less inviting than during those anxious moments, as I hung with my arms gradually slipping, certain, if the Sybaris did not come quickly, of going in head foremost. But fortunately she came quickly and I was rescued dry.