Literary Lapses

Back to the Bush I have a friend called Billy, who has the Bush Mania. By trade he is a doctor, but I do not think that he needs to sleep out of doors. In ordinary things his mind appears sound. Over the tops of his gold-rimmed spectacles, as he bends forward to speak to you, there gleams nothing but amiability and kindliness. Like all the rest of us he is, or was until he forgot it all, an extremely well-educated man. I am aware of no criminal strain in his blood. Yet Billy is in reality hopelessly unbalanced. He has the Mania of the Open Woods. Worse than that, he is haunted with the desire to drag his friends with him into the depths of the Bush. Whenever we meet he starts to talk about it. Not long ago I met him in the club. "I wish," he said, "you'd let me take you clear away up the Gatineau." "Yes, I wish I would, I don't think," I murmured to myself, but I humoured him and said: "How do we go, Billy, in a motor-car or by train?" "No, we paddle." "And is it up-stream all the way?" "Oh, yes," Billy said enthusiastically. "And how many days do we paddle all day to get up?" "Six." "Couldn't we do it in less?" "Yes," Billy answered, feeling that I was entering into the spirit of the thing, "if we start each morning just before daylight and paddle hard till moonlight, we could do it in five days and a half."