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More poetry that isn’t pretentious and a waste of time…

————

I Dream of Jeanie With The Light Brown Hair

By Stephen Foster

Foster S

Stephen Collins Foster (1826-1864)

I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air;
I see her tripping where the bright streams play,
Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.

Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour,
Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o’er:
Oh! I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile,
Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile;
I hear her melodies, like joys gone by,
Sighing round my heart o’er the fond hopes that die.

Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain,
Wailing for the lost one that comes not again:
Oh! I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low,
Never more to find her where the bright waters flow.

I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed
Far from the fond hearts round her native glade;
Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,
Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.

Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore
While her gentle fingers will cull them no more:
Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

————

Wisdom

By Sara Teasdale

Teasdale ST

Sarah Trevor Teasdale (1884-1933)

When I have ceased to break my wings
Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
When I have looked Life in the eyes,
Grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the Truth,
And taken in exchange my youth.

————

How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear

By Edward Lear

Edward Lear

Edward Lear (1812-1888)

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.

His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.

He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.

He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.

When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, “He’s gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!”

He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.

He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!

————

won’t you celebrate with me

By Lucille Clifton

Clifton L

Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?

i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

————

George, Who Played With a Dangerous Toy, And
Suffered a Catastrophe of Considerable Dimensions

By Hilaire Belloc

Belloc H

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)

When George’s Grandmamma was told
That George had been as good as gold,
She Promised in the afternoon
To buy him and Immense BALLOON.
And so she did; but when it came,
It got into the candle flame,
And being of a dangerous sort
Exploded with a loud report!

The lights went out! The windows broke!
The room was filled with reeking smoke.
And in the darkness shrieks and yells
Were mingled with electric bells,
And falling masonry and groans,
And crunching, as of broken bones,
And dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all,
The house itself began to fall!
It tottered, shuddering to and fro,
Then crashed into the street below —
Which happened to be Savile Row.

When Help arrived, among the dead
Were Cousin Mary, Little Fred,
The Footmen (both of them), the Groom,
The man that cleaned the Billiard-Room,
The Chaplain, and the Still-Room Maid.
And I am dreadfully afraid
That Monsieur Champignon, the Chef,
Will now be permanently deaf —
And both his aides are much the same;
While George, who was in part to blame,
Received, you will regret to hear,
A nasty lump behind the ear.

Moral:
The moral is that little boys
Should not be given dangerous toys.

 

Endless Blue

Fantasy writer Karen Anderson is the widow of noted sci-fi author Poul Anderson (1926-2001). Both Andersons were prolific writers, and over the years, they collaborated on a variety of fantasy and historical novels.

Poul (pronounced Pole) held a B.A. in physics, and his work was noted for scientific detail and accuracy; Karen was more drawn to fantasy and myth, as the charming short story below reflects.

Join young Johnny as he tames a wild hippogriff and explores beyond the edge of the world.

—————

The Piebald Hippogriff

By Karen Anderson
Published in Fantastic Stories of Imagination, May 1962

The edge of the world is fenced off stoutly enough, but the fence isn’t made that will stop a boy. Johnny tossed his pack and coil of rope over it and started climbing. The top three strands were barbed wire. He caught his shirt as he went over, and had to stop for a moment to ease himself off. Then he dropped lightly to the grass on the other side.

The pack had landed in a clump of white clover. A cloud of disturbed bees hung above, and he snatched it away quickly lest they should notice the honeycomb inside.

For a minute he stood still, looking out over the edge. This was different from looking through the fence, and when he moved it was slowly. He eased himself to the ground where a corner of rock rose clear of the thick larkspur and lay on his belly, the stone hard and cool under his chin, and looked down.

The granite cliff curved away out of sight, and he couldn’t see if it had a foot. He saw only endless blue, beyond, below, and on both sides. Clouds passed slowly.

Directly beneath him there was a ledge covered with long grass where clusters of stars bloomed on tall, slender stalks.

He uncoiled his rope and found a stout beech tree not too close to the edge. Doubling the rope around the bole, he tied one end around his waist, slung the pack on his back, and belayed himself down the cliff. Pebbles clattered, saxifrage brushed his arms and tickled his ears; once he groped for a hold with his face in a patch of rustling ferns.

The climb was hard, but not too much. Less than half an hour later he was stretched out on the grass with stars nodding about him. They had a sharp, gingery smell. He lay in the cool shadow of the world’s edge for a while, eating apples and honeycomb from his pack. When he was finished he licked the honey off his fingers and threw the apple cores over, watching them fall into the blue.

Little islands floated along, rocking gently in air eddies. Sunlight flashed on glossy leaves of bushes growing there. When an island drifted into the shadow of the cliff, the blossoming stars shone out. Beyond the shadows, deep in the light-filled gulf, he saw the hippogriffs at play.

###

There were dozens of them, frisking and cavorting in the air. He gazed at them full of wonder. They pretended to fight, stooped at one another, soared off in long spirals to stoop and soar and stoop again. One flashed by him, a golden palomino that shone like polished wood. The wind whistled in its wings.

Away to the left, the cliff fell back in a wide crescent, and nearly opposite him a river tumbled over the edge. A pool on a ledge beneath caught most of the water, and there were hippogriffs drinking. One side of the broad pool was notched. The overflow fell sheer in a white plume blown sideways by the wind.

As the sun grew hotter, the hippogriffs began to settle and browse on the islands that floated past. Not far below, he noticed, a dozen or so stood drowsily on an island that was floating through the cliff’s shadow toward his ledge. It would pass directly below him.

With a sudden resolution, Johnny jerked his rope down from the tree above and tied the end to a projecting knob on the cliff. Slinging on his pack again, he slid over the edge and down the rope.

The island was already passing. The end of the rope trailed through the grass. He slithered down and cut a piece off his line.

It was barely long enough after he had tied a noose in the end. He looked around at the hippogriffs. They had shied away when he dropped onto the island, but now they stood still, watching him warily.

Johnny started to take an apple out of his pack, then changed his mind and took a piece of honeycomb. He broke off one corner and tossed it toward them. They fluttered their wings and backed off a few steps, then stood still again.

Johnny sat down to wait. They were mostly chestnuts and blacks, and some had white stockings. One was piebald. That was the one which, after a while, began edging closer to where the honeycomb had fallen. Johnny sat very still.

###

The piebald sniffed at the honeycomb, then jerked up its head to watch him suspiciously. He didn’t move. After a moment it took the honeycomb.

When he threw another bit, the piebald hippogriff wheeled away, but returned almost at once and ate it. Johnny tossed a third piece only a few yards from where he was sitting.

It was bigger than the others, and the hippogriff had to bite it in two. When the hippogriff bent its head to take the rest Johnny was on his feet instantly, swinging his lariat. He dropped the noose over the hippogriff’s head. For a moment the animal was too startled to do anything; then Johnny was on its back, clinging tight.

The piebald hippogriff leaped into the air, and Johnny clamped his legs about convulsed muscles. Pinions whipped against his knees and wind blasted his eyes. The world tilted; they were rushing downward. His knees pressed the sockets of the enormous wings.

The distant ramparts of the world swung madly, and he seemed to fall upward, away from the sun that suddenly glared under the hippogriff’s talons. He forced his knees under the roots of the beating wings and dug heels into prickling hair. A sob caught his breath and he clenched his teeth.

The universe righted itself about him for a moment and he pulled breath into his lungs. Then they plunged again. Wind searched under his shirt. Once he looked down. After that he kept his eyes on the flutter of the feather-mane.

###

A jolt sent him sliding backward. He clutched the rope with slippery fingers. The wings missed a beat and the hippogriff shook its head as the rope momentarily checked its breath. It tried to fly straight up, lost way, and fell stiff-winged. The long muscles stretched under him as it arched its back, then bunched when it kicked straight out behind. The violence loosened his knees and he trembled with fatigue, but he wound the rope around his wrists and pressed his forehead against whitened knuckles. Another kick, and another. Johnny dragged at the rope.

The tense wings flailed, caught air, and brought the hippogriff upright again. The rope slackened and he heard huge gasps. Sunlight was hot on him again and a drop of sweat crawled down his temple. It tickled. He loosened one hand to dab at the annoyance. A new twist sent him sliding and he grabbed the rope. The tickle continued until he nearly screamed. He no longer dared let go. Another tickle developed beside the first. He scrubbed his face against the coarse fibre of the rope; the relief was like a world conquered.

Then they glided in a steady spiral that carried them upward with scarcely a feather’s motion. When the next plunge came Johnny was ready for it and leaned back until the hippogriff arched its neck, trying to free itself from the pressure on its windpipe. Half choked, it glided again, and Johnny gave it breath.

They landed on one of the little islands. The hippogriff drooped its head and wings, trembling.

He took another piece of honeycomb from his pack and tossed it to the ground where the hippogriff could reach it easily. While it ate he stroked it and talked to it. When he dismounted the hippogriff took honeycomb from his hand. He stroked its neck, breathing the sweet warm feathery smell, and laughed aloud when it snuffled the back of his neck.

Tying the rope into a sort of hackamore, he mounted again and rode the hippogriff to the pool below the thunder and cold spray of the waterfall. He took care that it did not drink too much. When he ate some apples for his lunch, the hippogriff ate the cores.

Afterward he rode to one of the drifting islands and let his mount graze. For a while he kept by its side, making much of it. With his fingers, he combed out the soft flowing plumes of its mane, and examined its hoofs and the sickle-like talons of the forelegs. He saw how the smooth feathers on its forequarters became finer and finer until he could scarcely see where the hair on the hindquarters began. Delicate feathers covered its head.

The island glided further and further away from the cliffs, and he watched the waterfall dwindle away to a streak and disappear. After a while he fell asleep.

###

He woke with a start, suddenly cold: the setting sun was below his island. The feathery odor was still on his hands. He looked around for the hippogriff and saw it sniffing at his pack.

When it saw him move, it trotted up to him with an expectant air. He threw his arms about the great flat-muscled neck and pressed his face against the warm feathers, with a faint sense of embarrassment at feeling tears in his eyes.

“Good old Patch,” he said, and got his pack. He shared the last piece of honeycomb with his hippogriff and watched the sun sink still further. The clouds were turning red.

“Let’s go see those clouds,” Johnny said. He mounted the piebald hippogriff and they flew off, up through the golden air to the sunset clouds. There they stopped and Johnny dismounted on the highest cloud of all, stood there as it turned slowly gray, and looked into dimming depths. When he turned to look at the world, he saw only a wide smudge of darkness spread in the distance.

The cloud they were standing on turned silver. Johnny glanced up and saw the moon, a crescent shore far above.

He ate an apple and gave one to his hippogriff. While he chewed he gazed back at the world. When he finished his apple, he was about to toss the core to the hippogriff, but stopped himself and carefully took out the seeds first. With the seeds in his pocket, he mounted again.

He took a deep breath. “Come on, Patch,” he said. “Let’s homestead the moon.”

Piebald Hippogriff

Original illustration from Fantastic Stories of Imagination, artist unknown.

 

Lost my mind

Drone me

Clones

Rich

 

Eric’s Very Bad Day

I went to Chattanooga for a few days recently to see the sights. Actually, I skipped the more touristy sights — Rock City, Ruby Falls, the Incline Railway — in favor of the art museum, the riverfront parks, and the battlefields. Okay, so I’m a snob.

I also spent an afternoon at the Tennessee Aquarium, which is impressive, and a morning at the Chattanooga Zoo.

My zoo experience began quietly enough. I set out at a leisurely pace, taking photos of assorted critters that are conveniently on display and powerless to stop you.

Tamarin

Cotton-Top Tamarin.

Sloth

Three-Toed Sloth, conserving energy.

Jaguar

Jaguar. Has the most powerful bite of the big cats. Hunts by going for the head.

I watched the staff feed raw meat to the bobcats. I learned that the cougar is not considered one of the “big cats” because cougars do not roar, they purr.

When I reached the petting zoo, the morning livened up considerably.

Inside the enclosure were 12 or so pygmy goats, doing their usual thing: jumping, prancing, butting heads. Nearby, an employee was saddling up the dromedaries. The zoo offers camel rides these days.

At the time, no children were inside the enclosure with the goats, but a young couple soon arrived with a boy of about age six.

He was a small, frail, meek-looking kid. He had a nervous, deer-in-the-headlights demeanor. He is the kind of child who will get shoved around a lot before his school days are over.

“Eric, would you like to pet the goats?” the dad asked. Eric remained silent and shook his head emphatically no.

“This is a petting zoo, Eric,” said the mom. “The goats are very gentle. They like to be petted!”

Eric stood at arm’s length from the fence in silence, contemplating the goats, still slowly shaking his head no.

Dad leaned down, put his arm around Eric’s shoulder, and said, “Tell you what. We’ll go in together. It’ll be fun. You’ll have a great story to tell when school starts.”

Eric wanted none of it, but he was powerless to avoid what was coming.

For a brief moment, I considered flipping my camera to video mode in order to capture whatever was about to transpire. I decided not to, in deference to poor Eric.

Dad swung open the spring-loaded gate, and he and Eric entered the compound. The boy was rigid with apprehension.

The goats, of course, began to converge on the newcomers in case they had food. Dad had enough sense to stand between Eric and the herd, keeping the goats occupied until Eric had time to conclude that he wasn’t going to die.

And, indeed, the boy soon relaxed somewhat. Eventually, he reached out a hand and touched the back of one of the goats. When he withdrew his hand, he almost smiled.

Dad departed the compound, and Eric slowly got into the spirit of the place. Before long, he was waist high in goats, touching their horns, patting their flanks, even being jostled now and then. He hadn’t uttered a word, but he appeared comfortable.

Moments later, as the sea of goats parted slightly, Eric ran forward a few steps and stopped. I saw no reason for it except sheer enthusiasm.

When Eric ran, several of the goats also broke into a run, going in various directions. This startled Eric, who began to run again. Which prompted more goats to join in.

Then, as he ran, Eric began to scream. It was a high-pitched, safety-whistle scream. The ear-piercing scream of a banshee, or a toddler.

As pandemonium reigned inside the compound, Mom and Dad ran along the fence, yelling at Eric.

“Eric! Stop running! Stop!”

“Eric, don’t run! When you run, the goats run!”

Why they didn’t open the gate and go to the boy’s aid, I can’t say.

Seconds later, Eric found himself on the far side of a water trough with several goats in pursuit. When the goats came around the left side of the trough, Eric ran to the right. When the goats ran right, Eric ran left.

Having regained control of the situation, sort of, Eric also regained some of his composure. His panic subsided.

At that point, Dad came to his senses, burst into the compound, and ran toward the water trough. This caused most of the goats to start running again, but Eric held his strategic position behind the trough.

Dad collected Eric and escorted him toward the gate. On the way, one of the smaller goats ran past them, coming within a foot or two.

Eric let loose another piercing scream — this time, in anger — and delivered a fierce roundhouse punch that landed on the goat’s jaw.

The goat stumbled, recovered, and skittered back to the safety of the herd.

Goats

Why no zoo employees were present as the drama unfolded, I can’t say.

 

Useless Facts

More Useless Facts for Inquiring Minds.

————

— The full name of Barbie, the Mattel “fashion doll,” is Barbara Millicent Roberts, a fact established in a series of Barbie novels in the 1960s. Her parents are George and Margaret Roberts of Willows, Wisconsin. Barbie attended Willows High School.

— Mel Blanc, the legendary voice of Bugs Bunny, was allergic to carrots.

—  The names of the continents — Asia, Africa, America, Antarctica, Europe, and Australia — all begin and end with the same letter. (Yes, North America and South America are separate continents, but lighten up, people.)

— The Sesame Street characters Bert and Ernie were named after Bert the cop and Ernie the taxi driver in the 1946 film “It’s A Wonderful Life.”

B&Es

— The soft drink 7 Up was introduced in 1929 as “Bib-Label Lithiated Lemon-Lime Soda.” (“Lithiated” because the drink contained a dose of the mood-stabilizing drug lithium citrate. Lithium was banned from soft drinks in 1948.) Early on, the company founder renamed his beverage 7 Up, but he never explained what 7 Up means, and he took the secret to his grave.

— The shortest complete sentence in English is “I am.”

— One of the traditions of the Navajo people, the Diné, is to throw a party when a baby laughs for the first time. The person who made the baby laugh must organize the party and cover the costs.

— American silver coins have ridges around the edges to prevent “coin clipping” (shaving off little bits of silver). The Mint doesn’t add ridges to pennies or nickels because those metals aren’t worth stealing.

Coins

— Maine is the only U.S. state whose name is just one syllable.

— In 1987, American Airlines eliminated one olive from each salad served in first class. The reduced cost of olives, plus the minute reduction in fuel consumption, reportedly saved the company $40,000 that  year.

— The largest shopping center in North America is the West Edmonton Mall in Alberta, Canada. The mall covers 5,300,000 square feet, about the size of 48 city blocks. It includes 800 stores, 100 restaurants, two hotels, an amusement park, an indoor lake, a miniature golf course, and an ice rink.

— The largest shopping center in the world is the Dubai Mall in the United Arab Emirates. It covers 12,100,000 square feet, the size of 50 football fields. It features 1,200 stores, 120 restaurants, an Olympic-size ice rink, an interactive playland for children, an amusement park, an aquarium, and a zoo.

Dubai Mall

 

Pix o’ the Day

More random photos I’ve taken over the years that still make me smile.

Mecanic

Presidents

Hokey Pokey

Bus driver

NOLA window

Redneck

 

The Augusta Canal

This is my second post about Augusta, Georgia, which I visited in June on a lark. No need to read my earlier post first, but feel free.

————

When I think about how people lived in earlier times, I tend to judge them as primitive and unsophisticated. Not stupid, mind you, but simple and unrefined. Clueless compared to us cutting-edge modern folks.

And up to a point, they were. For example, to prevent disease, you have to understand the concept of pathogens. Good luck with that if you lived before people knew what pathogens are.

But sometimes, I run across evidence that people from days of yore were quite competent and shouldn’t be sold short. A case in point: the impressive feat, way back in the 1840s, of building the Augusta Canal.

A bit of background. In 1733, General James Oglethorpe founded Savannah, the first settlement in the new colony of Georgia. In 1736, Oglethorpe sent a contingent of troops up the Savannah River to build an outpost at the limit of upstream navigation.

The purpose was to establish a settlement where goods could be brought from towns to the north and west and shipped downriver to Savannah for export.

The limit of upstream navigation turned out to be 200 miles north of Savannah at the fall line, where the Piedmont Plateau drops down to the Coastal Plain. For centuries, native people used the ledges and shoals at the fall line to cross the Savannah River.

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(Later, the cities of  Macon, Columbus, and Milledgeville also were established at the fall line. Below them, the rivers are deep and smooth to the Atlantic or the Gulf. Above them is rocky, shallow water and a steady climb to the Appalachians.)

Oglethorpe’s expedition built an outpost on the west bank of the Savannah River about seven miles south of the fall line. The settlement was named in honor of Princess Augusta, the wife of the Prince of Wales.

And Oglethorpe’s plan worked splendidly. For the next hundred years, Augusta thrived as a trading and shipping center. Wagons rolled into town from across the region carrying tobacco, cotton, and other goods. The warehouses brimmed with product. Barges and steamboats transported a steady stream of cargo downriver to Savannah, where it was shipped to other markets.

But by the early 1800s, Augusta’s prosperity was waning. Various economic factors were taking their toll — the country’s westward expansion, the growth of the railroads, competition from other river towns.

Then in the 1840s, a man with a vision came forward. Henry H. Cumming, son of the city’s first mayor, proposed a plan to turn Augusta into a manufacturing center by building a canal from the fall line to Augusta.

 

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Henry H. Cumming

Because the canal would drop 52 feet in elevation by the time it reached Augusta, it could provide hydropower to operate mills and factories. Plus, it would be a transportation corridor and a source of drinking water.

Cumming hired a prestigious engineer to survey the route and draw up the plans, and the city fathers gave it their blessing. Construction on the Augusta Canal began in the spring of 1845.

The workers — hundreds of slaves, freedmen, and white laborers — dug the entire canal by hand.

This, mind you, was an era when the only tools available were pickaxes, shovels, and horse-drawn carts. There was no electric power, no heavy equipment. Steam power was in development, but it was not practical for a field project.

The canal was designed and built in three sections. Where each section ended, some of the water was allowed to flow downhill and back into the Savannah River. At those drops, the new factories would be built.

Despite constant engineering complications and a several legal battles over the route, the canal was completed and opened in July 1850.

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Painting of the headgates of the Augusta Canal at the fall line, 1850s.

But the project was only a limited success. The canal performed as expected, but it wasn’t large enough to power all the proposed factories and mills. The engineers had miscalculated.

Thus, after the understandable delay of the Civil War, a project to enlarge the canal got underway in 1872.

Again, battalions of workers were assembled. Some were local laborers, some were convicts from area prisons. Italian stonemasons and Chinese railroad workers were brought in. Steam-powered equipment was used in addition to picks and shovels.

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Expanding the Augusta Canal. Painting by Bernard Willingham, 1870s.

By 1875, the new and improved Augusta Canal was in operation. This time, the channel was 13 feet deep and 150 feet across.

Between the canal and the Savannah River, a towpath was built atop the levy so horses and oxen could pull the barges. The towpath ran from the canal headgates to downtown Augusta.

As envisioned, new factories soon arose along the canal banks. “Mill towns” materialized to house the factory workers and their families. The textile industry and other enterprises flourished in Augusta well into the 20th Century.

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Sibley Cotton Mill on the Augusta Canal, 1903.

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A flat-bottomed “Petersburg” boat on the canal in the 1890s.

As the decades passed, the canal generated electricity not only for the factories, but also for streetcars, streetlights, homes, and businesses.

But by the 1960s, inevitably, Augusta’s prosperity began to wane again. The canal was becoming antiquated. Truck transportation took business away. Electricity was cheaper from the new power plants on the Savannah River.

Meanwhile, the city began neglecting the canal and even considered draining parts of it. When Augusta demolished several abandoned factories during urban renewal projects, parts of the in-town portion of the canal were allowed to dry up.

In 1971, another Cumming stepped forward and woke up the city fathers in grand style. It was Joseph Cumming, great-grandson of Henry, who managed to get the Augusta Canal added to the National Register of Historic Places.

This action forced the city administration to change its viewpoint about the canal. “Save the Augusta Canal” bumper stickers became popular. Local citizens organized to stop the construction of a golf course near the canal headgates.

By the 1990s, Augusta also realized that the canal had superb recreational possibilities. Soon, a canal authority was chartered. The canal was cleaned up, and the flow of water was restored throughout its length.

In 1996, the canal was designated a National Heritage Area. One of the old factories was converted into a canal museum and visitor center.

Today, You can rent a canoe or kayak at the headgates, float as far downstream as you like, and take a shuttle back.

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You can walk, run, or cycle for miles on the towpath or other trails in the vicinity.

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The city now offers cruises along the canal aboard replicas of the old Petersburg flatboats. Appropriately, one of those flatboats is the Henry H. Cumming.

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Sibley Mill (left) and J. P. King Mill today. Both are vacant, but are owned and protected by the Canal Authority.

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One leg of the canal passes through this in-town courtyard as the water flows back to the Savannah River.

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A view of the canal from the towpath.

The Augusta Canal is now 166 years old — and doing pretty well for its age.

 

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