valves:  I was Habib advancing from isle to isle of the enchanted sea.  I uttered the word of power, and the huge unwieldy gates of opposition swung back with sullen and unwilling deference, compelled to respect the talisman I held.  But hark!  Hear the sweet notes of the supper-horn floating through the cool gloom of twilight as the tired reapers trudge home with their grain-cradles swung over their shoulders.  Listen to the tinkling mule-bells on the tow-path, see the bright crimson tassels of the bridles, and the gayly-decorated boats, their cabin-roofs adorned with pots of herbs and flowers.

As we glide down the canal, ever and anon we see some empty returning boat (called “light boat” in the technical canal phrase) rounding a curve before us, It comes nearer:  the horses walk the same tow-path:  how are the boats to pass without confusion?  Ah, the riddle is solved.  Our captain (who holds the helm while the boy, his assistant, is down in the cabin preparing supper) calls out suddenly, at the last moment, “Whoa!” The well-trained horses instantly stop; the momentum of the boat carries it on; the rope slackens, disappears in the water, except at the two ends; the approaching horses step over it, and the approaching boat glides over it.  When the approaching “light boat” has passed nearly or entirely over the rope our captain shouts to his horses to go on:  the rope tightens, and all is as before.

The parts of the canal lying between the locks are called “levels.”  On long levels we could often see one or two boats far ahead of us and going in the same direction.  Nothing could be prettier than the thin blue streamer of wood-smoke trailing out from the stovepipe of the cabin-roof against the bright green of the foliage along the banks.  It told us the cheery news that the fragrant coffee or tea was a-making in the cozy little cabin below.  And now, when supper is done, the captain brings up his guitar and plays sweet plaintive airs as we glide through the quiet evening shadows.  Night deepens:  the stars come out one by one, and are reflected in the smooth dark water below in dreamy, dusky splendor.  We brush the dew from the heavy foliage as we pass along.  Lithe alders and heavy vines trail in the cool flood, and the fresh evening air is filled with grateful harvest-scents and the perfume of unseen flowers.  And now our pretty painted lamp-board is fixed in its place in the bow.  The bright lamp throws its rich golden splendor before us.  The lamp is hid from us by the board which holds it.  We stand behind in the dark, and watch the overhanging sprays of foliage making strange, grotesque shadows that move fantastically and sport and clutch and writhe like wanton fiends, while the solid banks of foliage themselves, reflected in the water below, look, one fancies, like hanging gardens in the weird world to which the water is but a window, and far, far down upon whose dusky floor the flowers are golden stars.