Among the Isles of Shoals: IV

IV.

IT has been my good fortune to witness but few wrecks at the Shoals. The disasters of which we hear faintly from the past were many and dreadful, but since the building of the lighthouse on White Island, and also on Boone Island (which seems like a neighbor, though fifteen miles distant), the danger of the place is much lessened. A resident of Star Island told me of a wreck which took place forty-seven years ago, during a heavy storm from the eastward. It blew so that all the doors in the house opened as fast as they shut them, and in the night a vessel drove against “Hog Island Head,” which fronts the village on Star. She went to pieces utterly. In the morning the islanders perceived the beach at Londoners heaped with some kind of drift ; they could not make out what it was, but, as soon as the sea subsided, went to examine and found a mass of oranges and picture-frames, with which the vessel had been freighted. Not a soul was saved. “She struck with such force that she drove a large spike out of her forefoot ” into a crevice in the rock, which was plainly to be seen till a few years ago. My informant also told me that she remembered the wreck of the Sagunto, in 1813, that the beaches were strewn with “almondnuts ” long after, and that she picked up curiously embroidered vests and “ work-bags ” in all directions along the shores.

During a storm in 1839, while living at White Island, we were startled by the heavy booming of guns through the roar of the tempest, — a sound that drew nearer and nearer, till at last, through a sudden break in the mist and spray, we saw the heavily rolling hull of a large vessel driving by to her sure destruction toward the coast. It was as if the wind had torn the vapor apart on purpose to show us this piteous sight; and I well remember the hand on my shoulder which held me firmly, shuddering child that I was, and forced me to look in spite of myself. What a day of pain it was ! how dreadful the sound of those signal-guns, and how much more dreadful the certainty, when they ceased, that all was over ! We learned afterward that it was the brig Pocahontas, homeward bound from Spain, and that the vessel and all her crew were lost. In later years a few coasters and fishermen have gone ashore at the islands, generally upon the hidden ledges at Duck. Many of these have been loaded with lime, a most perilous freight, for as soon as the water touches it there is a double danger; and between fire and water there is little chance of escape.

Boone Island is the forlornest place that can be imagined. The Isles of Shoals, barren as they are, seem like gardens of Eden in comparison. I chanced to hear last summer of a person who had been born and brought up there ; he described the loneliness as something absolutely fearful, and declared it had pursued him all through his life. He lived there till fourteen or fifteen years old, when his family moved to York. While living on the island he discovered some human remains which had lain there thirty years. A carpenter and his assistants, having finished some building, were capsized in getting off, and all were drowned, except the master. One body floated to Plum Island, at the mouth of the Merrimack ; the others the master secured, made a box for them, — all alone the while, —and buried them in a cleft and covered them with stones. These stones the sea washed away, and thirty years after they were buried the boy found the bones, which were removed to York and there buried again. It was on board a steamer bound to Portland that the man told his story. Boone Island Light was shining in the distance. He spoke with bitterness of his life in that terrible solitude, and of “the loneliness which had pursued him ever since.” All his relatives were dead, he said, and he had no human tie in the wide world except his wife. He ended by anathematizing all islands, and, vanishing into the darkness, was not to be found again ; nor did his name or any trace of him transpire, though he was sought for in the morning all about the vessel.

One of the most shocking stories of shipwreck I remember to have heard is that of the Nottingham Galley, wrecked on this island in the year 1710. There is a narrative of this shipwreck existing, written by “John Deane, then commander of said Galley, but for many years after his Majesty’s consul for the ports of Flanders residing at Ostend,” printed in 1762. The ship, of one hundred and twenty tons, carrying ten guns, with a crew of fourteen men, loaded partly in England and partly in Ireland, and sailed for Boston on the 25th of September, 1710. She made land on the 11th of December, and was wrecked on that fatal rock. At first the unhappy crew “ treated each other with kindness and condolence, and prayed to God for relief.” The only things saved from the wreck were a bit of canvas and half a cheese. The men made a triangular tent of the bit of canvas, and all lay close together beneath it, sideways ; none could turn without the general concurrence : they turned once in two hours upon public notice. They had no fire, and lived upon kelp and rockweed, and mussels, three a day to a man. Starvation and suffering soon produced a curious loss of memory. The fourth day the cook died. When they had been there upwards of a week they saw three sails in the southwest, but no boat came near them. They built a rude boat of such materials as they could gather from the wreck, but she was lost in launching. One of the men, a Swede, is particularly mentioned ; he seems to have been full of energy; with help from the others he built a raft; in launching this they overset it. Again they saw a sail, this time coming out from the Piscataqua River ; it was soon out of sight. The Swede was determined to make an effort to reach the shore, and persuaded another man to make the attempt with him. At sunset they were seen half - way to the land; the raft was found on shore with the body of one man ; the Swede was never seen more. A hide was thrown on the rocks at Boone Island by the sea ; this the poor sailors ate raw, minced. About the end of December the carpenter died, and, driven to madness by hunger, they devoured the flesh of their dead comrade. The captain, being the strongest of the party, dragged the body away and hid it, and dealt small portions of it daily to the men. Immediately their dispositions underwent a horrible change. They became fierce and reckless, and were the most pitiable objects of despair, when, on January 4, 1711, they were discovered and taken off. It was evening when they entered the Piscataqua River, and eight o’clock when they landed. Discovering a house through the darkness, the master rushed into it, frightening the gentlewoman and children desperately, and, making his way to the kitchen, snatched the pot wherein some food was cooking off the fire, and began to eat voraciously. This old record mentions John Plaisted and John Wentworth as being most “forward in benevolence ” to these poor fellows.

When visiting the island for the first time, a few years ago, I was shown the shallow gorge where the unfortunates tried to shelter themselves. It was the serenest of summer days ; everything smiled and shone as I stood looking down into that rocky hollow. Near by the lighthouse sprang — a splendid piece of masonry — over a hundred feet into the air, to hold its warning aloft. About its base some gentle thought had caused morning-glories to climb and unfold their violet, white, and rosy bells against the smooth dark stone. I thought I had never seen flowers so beautiful. There was hardly a handful of grass on the island, hardly soil enough to hold a root; therefore it seemed the more wonderful to behold this lovely apparition. With my mind full of the story of the Nottingham Galley, I looked at the delicate bells, the cool green leaves, the whole airy grace of the wandering vines, and it was as if a hand were stretched out to pluck me away from the awful questions never to be answered this side the grave, that pressed so heavily while I thought how poor humanity had here suffered the utmost misery that it is possible to endure.

The aspect of this island from the Shoals is very striking, so lonely it lies on the eastern horizon, its tall lighthouse like a slender column against the sky. It is easily mistaken for the smoke-stack of a steamer by unaccustomed eyes, and sometimes the watcher most familiar with its appearance can hardly distinguish it from the distant white sails that steal by it, to and fro. Sometimes it looms colossal in the mirage of summer, in winter it lies blurred and ghostly at the edge of chilly sea and pallid sky. In the sad, strange light of winter sunsets its faithful star blazes suddenly from the darkening east and sends a friendly ray across to its neighbor at the Shoals, waiting as it also waits, ice-bound, storm-swept, and solitary, for gentler days to come. And “winter’s rains and ruins ” have an end at last.

In the latter part of February, after ten days perhaps of the northwester, bringing across to the islands all the chill of the snow-covered hills of the continent, some happy evening it dies into a reasonable breeze, and while the sun sets you climb the snowy height and sweep with your eyes the whole circle of the horizon, with nothing to impede the view. Ah ! how sad it looks in the dying light ! Star Island close by with its silent little village and the sails of belated fishing-boats hurrying in over the dark water to the moorings. White Island afar off “kindling its great red star ” on every side the long bleached points of granite stretching out into the sea, so cold and bleak, the line of coast sad purple, and the few schooners leaden and gray in the distance. Yet there is a hopeful glow where the sun went down suggestive of the spring, and before the ruddy sweetness of the western sky the melancholy east is flushed with violet, and up into the delicious color rolls a gradual moon, mellow and golden as in harvest-time, while high above her the great star Jupiter begins to glitter clear. On such an evening some subtle influence of the coming spring steals to the heart, and eyes that have watched the winter skies so patiently, grow wistful with the thought of summer days to come. On shore in these last weeks of winter one becomes aware, by various delicate tokens, of the beautiful change at hand, — by the deepening of the golden willow wands into a more living color, and by their silvery buds, which in favored spots burst the brown sheaths ; by the reddening of bare maple-trees, as if with promise of future crimson flowers ; by the sweet cry of the returning bluebird ; by the alders at the river’s edge. If the season is mild, the catkins begin to unwind their tawny tresses in the first weeks of March. But here are no trees, and no bluebirds come till April. Perhaps some day the delightful clangor of the wild geese is heard, and looking upward, lo! the long floating ribbon streaming northward across the sky. What joy they bring to hearts so weary with waiting ! Truly a wondrous Content is shaken down with their wild clamors out of the cloudy heights, and a courage and vigor lurk in these strong voices, that touch the listener with something better than gladness, while he traces eagerly the wavering lines that seek the north with steady, measured flight.

Gradually the bitter winds abate, early in March the first flocks of crows arrive, and they soar finely above the coves, and perch on the flukes of stranded anchors or the tops of kellock-sticks that lie about the water’s edge. They are most welcome, for they are never seen in winter; and pleasant it is to watch them beating their black ragged pinions in the blue, while the gulls swim on beyond them serenely, shining still whiter for their sable color. No other birds come till about the 27th of March, and then all at once the islands are alive with song-sparrows, and these sing from morning till night so beautifully, that dull and weary indeed must be the mortal who can resist the charm of their fresh music. There is a matchless sweetness and good cheer in this brave bird. The nightingale singing with its breast against a thorn may be divine, yet would I turn away from its tender melody to listen to the fresh, cheerful, healthy song of this dauntless and happy little creature. They come in flocks to be fed every morning the whole summer long, tame and charming, with their warm brown and gray feathers, striped and freaked with woodcolor and little brown knots at each pretty throat! They build their nests and remain till the snow falls ; frequently they remain all winter ; sometimes they come into the house for shelter; once one fluttered in and entered the canaries’ cage voluntarily, and stayed there singing like a voice from heaven all winter. Robins and blackbirds appear with the sparrows ; a few blackbirds build and remain ; the robins, finding no trees, flit across to the mainland. Yellow-birds and kingbirds occasionally build here, but very rarely. By the first of April the snow is gone, and our bit of earth is free from that dead white mask. How lovely then the gentle neutral tints of tawny intervals of dead grass and brown bushes and varying stone appear, set in the living sea ! There is hardly a square foot of the bare rock that is n't precious for its soft coloring, and freshly beautiful are the uncovered lichens that with patient fingering have ornamented the rough surfaces with their wonderful embroideries. They flourish with the greatest vigor by the sea; whole houses at Star used to be covered with the orange-colored variety, and I have noticed the same thing in the pretty fishing village of Newcastle and on some of the old buildings by the river-side in sleepy Portsmouth city. Through April the weather softens daily, and by the 20th come gray, quiet days with mild northeast wind ; in the hollows the grass has greened, and now the gentle color seems to brim over and spread out upon the ground in faint and fainter gradations. A refreshing odor springs from the moist earth, from the short sweet turf, which the cattle crop so gladly, —a musky fragrance unlike that of inland pastures, and with this is mingled the pure seabreeze, a most reviving combination. The turfy gorges, boulder-strewn and still, remind one of Alexander Smith’s descriptions of his summer in Skye, of those quiet, lonely glens, —just such a grassy carpet was spread in their hollows. By the 23d of April come the first swallow and flocks of martins, golden-winged and downy woodpeckers, the tiny ruby-crowned wren, and troops of many other kinds of birds; kingfishers that perch on stranded kellocks, little nuthatches that peck among the shingles for hidden spiders, and gladden the morning with sweet, quaint cries, so busy and bright and friendly ! All these tarry only awhile in their passage to the mainland.

But though the birds come and the sky has relented and grown tender with its melting clouds, the weather in New England has a fashion of leaping back into midwinter in the space of an hour, and all at once comes half a hurricane from the northwest, charged with the breath of all the remaining snow-heaps on the far mountain ranges, — a “ whilesea roarin’ wind ” that takes you back to January. In the afternoon, through the cold transparent heaven, a pale halfmoon glides slowly over; there is a splendor of wild clouds at sunset, dusk heaps with scarlet fringes, scattered flecks of flame in a clear crimson air above the fallen sun ; then cold moonlight over the black sea, with the flash and gleam of white waves the whole night long.

But the potent spirit of the spring triumphs at last. When the sun in its journey north passes a certain group of lofty pine-trees standing out distinctly against the sky on Breakfast Hill in Greenland, New Hampshire, which lies midway in the coast line ; then the Shoalers are happy in the conviction that there will be “ settled weather,” and they put no trust in any relenting of the elements before that time. After this there soon come days when to be alive is quite enough joy, — days when it is bliss only to watch and feel how

days when the sea lies, colored like a turquoise, blue and still, and from the south a band of warm gray-purple haze steals down on the horizon like an encircling arm about the happy world. The lightest film encroaches upon the sea, only made perceptible by the shimmering of far-off sails. A kind of bloom, inexpressibly lovely, softens over the white canvas of nearer vessels, like a delicate veil. There is a fascination in the motion of these slender schooners, a wondrous grace, as they glide before a gentle wind, slowly bowing, bending, turning, with curving canvas just filled with the breeze, and shadows falling soft from sail to sail. They are all so picturesque, so suggestive, from the small tanned sprit-sail some young islander spreads to flit to and fro among the rocks and ledges, to the stately column of canvas that bears the great ship round the world. The variety of their aspects is endless and ever beautiful, whether you watch them from the lighthouse top, dreaming afar on the horizon, or at the water’s edge, — whether they are drowned in the flood of sunshine on the waves, or glide darkly through the track of the moonlight, or fly toward you full of promise, wing and wing, like some magnificent bird, or steal away reddening in the sunset as if to

I know nothing sadder than their aspect in the light of the winter sunsets, as they vanish away in the cold east, blushing for a fleeting moment, sweetly, faintly, under the last touch of the dropping day. To a child’s imagination they are all full of charm and of mystery, freighted with heavenly dreams. “ The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,” and the watching of the sails filled the lonely, lovely summer days of one young Shoaler with joy enough and to spare. How many pictures linger in my mind,—splendid stately apparitions of full-rigged, slender schooners, passing very near early in the breezy mornings of spring, every inch of canvas in a blaze of white light, and the whole vessel alive from keel to topmast. And well I remember on soft May evenings how they came dropping down from Cape Ann, while the sunset streaming through low bars of cloud just touched them with pale gold, and made them half luminous and altogether lovely. And how the fog clung in silver strips to the dark wet sails of vessels lying becalmed when all the air about was clear and free from mist ! how the mackerel fleet surrounded the islands, five hundred craft sometimes between the islands and the coast, so that one might almost walk on shore from deck to deck. It was wonderful to wake on some midsummer morning and find the sea gray-green, like translucent chrysoprase, and the somewhat stormy sunrise painting the sails bright flame-color as they flew before the warm wild wind that blew strongly from the south. At night sometimes in a glory of moonlight a vessel passed close in with all sail set. and only just air enough to fill the canvas, enough murmur from the full tide to drown the sound of her movement, — a beautiful ghost stealing softly by, and passing in mysterious light beyond the glimmering headland out of sight. Here was suggestion enough for a night full of visions ! Then the scudding of sails before a storm, —how the ships came rushing in from the far, dim sea-line, racing by to Portsmouth Harbor, close reefed, or under darkened mainsail and jib only, leaping over the long swell, and plunging their sharp bowsprits into a cloud of snowy spray at every leap ! Then when the storm had spent itself, how beautiful to see them stealing tranquilly forth from the river’s mouth, flocking seaward again, shining white in the peaceful morning sunshine ! Watching them in all their endless variety, coming and going, dreaming, drifting, or flying, many a time these quaint old rhymes occurred to me : —

As the winter is doubly hard, so are the gentler seasons doubly sweet and delightful, when one is shut out with them, as it were, and forced to observe all their changes and peculiarities with so few human interests to interrupt one’s intercourse with nature. The rainy days in May at the Isles of Shoals have seemed to me more lovely than the sunshine in Paradise could be, so charming it was to walk in the warm showers over the island, and note all the mosses and lichens drenched and bright with the moisture, thick, sweet buds on the bayberry bushes, rich green leaves unfolding here and there among the tangled vines, and bright anemones growing up between. The lovely eyebright glimmers everywhere. The rain, if it continues for several days, bleaches the sea-weed about the shores to a lighter and more golden brown ; the sea is gray and the sky lowers, but all these neutral tints are gentle and refreshing. The coasters rock lazily on the long swell toward Cape Ann, dim through low-hanging clouds ; clearly the sandpipers call, and always the song-sparrows freshly surprise you with their outburst of cheerful music. In the last weeks of May comes a period of balmy days with a gentle, incessant southwest wind, the sea a wonderful gray-blue, with the faint impalpable haze lying over sails, islands, sea, and coast. A brooding warmth is everywhere. The sky is cloudless, but opaque, — a kind of milky effect in the atmosphere, through which the sun is seen as through smoked glass, and long before it sets one can bear to look at the crimson ball slow sinking in the rich red west; and the moon is like copper, throwing no light on the water. The islanders call this a “smoky sou’wester.” Now come delicious twilights, with silence broken only by mysterious murmurs from the waves, and sweet, full cries from the sandpipers fluttering about their nests on the margin of the beaches, — tender, happy notes that thrill the balmy air, and echo softly about the silent moonlit coves. Sails in this twilight atmosphere gather the dusk within their folds ; if the warm wind is blowing softly, there is enchantment in the sound of the lazily flapping canvas and in the long creak of the mast. A human voice borne through this breathing wind comes like a waft of music faintly heard across the water. The mornings now are exquisite, the delicate flush of the sunrise through this beautiful haze is indescribable. The island is indeed like

so freshly green, so flower-strewn and fragrant, so musical with birds, and with the continual caressing of summer waves. Now and then a bobolink pays us a flying visit, and, tilting on a blackberry spray, pours out his intoxicating song ; some morning is heard the fairy bugling of an oriole; a scarlet tanager honors the place with half a day’s sojourn, to be the wonder of all eyes ; but commonly the swallows hold it in undisputed possession. The air is woven through and through with the gleam of their burnished wings and their clear happy cries. They are so tame, knowing how well they are beloved, that they gather on the windowsills, twittering and fluttering, gay and graceful, turning their heads this way and that, eying you askance without a trace of fear. All day they build their nests about the eaves, nor heed how loving eyes do watch their charming toil. Walking abroad in these pleasant evenings, many a little sparrow’s nest one finds, low down in the bayberry-bushes, smooth brown cups of woven grass, wherein lie the five speckled eggs, each full of silent music, each dumb miracle waiting for the finger of God to wake, to be alive, to drink the sunshine and the breeze, to fill the air with blissful sound. At the water’s edge one finds the long ledges covered with barnacles, and from each rough shell a tiny brown filmy hand is thrust out, opening and shutting in gladness beneath the coming tide, feeling the freshness of the flowing water. The shore teems with life in manifold forms. As the darkness gathers, the ripples begin to break in pale flame against the rocks ; if the tide is low enough, it is charming to steal down in the shadow, and, drawing aside the curtain of coarse sea-weed that drapes the face of some smooth rock, to write on the surface beneath. The strange fire follows your finger, and there is your name in weird flame, all alive, quivering and trembling, and finally fading and disappearing. In a still pool you drop a stone or touch the water with your hand, instantly a thousand stars break out and burn and vanish in a moment ! It used to be a pleasant thing to bring a piece of drift-wood, water-soaked and shaggy with fine sea-weed, up from the shore, and from some dark corner suddenly sweep my hand across it ; a sheet of white flame followed, startling the beholder.

June is of course the most delightful month here, everything is yet so fresh ; later the hot sun dries and scorches the thin soil, and partially destroys the little vegetation which finds room upon the island. But through this month the ground is beautiful with starry purple stonewort ; like little suns the blossoms of the lion’s-foot shine in the thinnest of the soil ; herb-robert blossoms ; the slender arenaria steals up among the bushes, lifting a little white flower to the sun ; here and there the sorrel lies in crimson stains ; in wet places sturdy clumps of fern unroll their golden green with splendid vigor of growth, and from the swamp the rushes rise in ranks, like a faint green vapor, slowly, day by day. The few wild-cherry bushes have each its inevitable caterpillars’ nest; one can but wonder how caterpillars and cankerworms find their way across the water. The presence of green snakes on these rocks may be explained by their having been found coiled on a piece of driftwood many miles out at sea. Bees find their way out from the land in companies, seeking the white clover-blossoms that rise in cool, creamy, fragrant globes through the dark leaves and grass. The clover here is peculiarly rich. Many varieties of butterflies abound, the handsome moth of the American silkworm among them. One night in June, at sunset, we were kindling the lamps in the lighthouse, and because it was so mild and still outside, the little iron door of the lantern was left open. No breeze came in to stir the flame that quivered in the centre of each shining reflector, but presently glided through the door the pale green, exquisite Luna moth, with its wonderful crescents, its lines of velvet brown, and long under wings drawn out like the tail of a swallow. It sailed slowly round and round the dome above the lamps at first, but soon became agitated and would have dashed itself against the flames, but that I caught it. What a marvel it was ! I never dreamed of the existence of so beautiful a creature. Titania herself could not have been more interesting to me.

In the quiet little coves troops of butterflies are often seen, anchored for the night, clinging to the thistle-blossoms to be safe from assailing winds. Crickets are never heard here till after the 1st of August. On the mainland they begin about the 28th of May, a sad and gentle autumnal undertone which from that time accompanies the jubilant chorus of summer in a gradual crescendo, till finally the days pass on to no other music save their sweet melancholy chirrup. In August comes the ruby-throated humming-bird, and several pairs flutter about the little gardens for weeks. By the 1st of July the wild roses blossom, and every bit of swampy ground is alive with the waving flags of the iris, each flower of which is full of exquisite variety of tint and shade of gold and violet. All over the island patches of it diversify the surface, set like amethysts in the rich greens and browns of turf and mossy spaces. Through the tangle of leaves and grasses the spikes of golden - rod make their way upward slowly day by day, to be ready at the first beckoning of Autumn’s finger to light their torches and join the fair procession. The pimpernel is awake, and the heavy, stout stalks of the mulleins uprear their woolly buds, that soon will break into squares of pallid gold. The world is at high tide of delight. Along the coast line the mirage races in flowing undulations of heat, changing the hill ranges into a solid wall, to dissolve them and again reunite them into clusters of gigantic towers and battlements ; trees, spires, chimneys, lighthouses, become roofs and minarets and domes of some stately city of the clouds, and these melt in their turn, and the whole coast shrinks away to the merest line on the horizon immeasurably removed. Each of these changes, and the various aspects of their little world, are of inestimable value to the lonely children living always in that solitude. Nothing is too slight to be precious, — the flashing of an oar-blade in the morning light ; the twinkling of a gull’s wings afar off, like a star in the yellow sunshine of the drowsy summer afternoon ; the water-spout waltzing away before the wild wind that cleaves the sea from the advancing thunder - cloud ; the distant showers that march about the horizon, trailing their dusky fringes of falling rain over sea and land; every phase of the great thunder-storms that make glorious the weeks of July and August, from the first floating film of cloud that rises in the sky till the scattered fragments of the storm stream eastward to form a background for the rainbow; — all these things are of the utmost importance to dwellers at the Isles of Shoals. There is something especially delightful in the perfumes which stream across the sea after showers, like a heavenly greeting from the land ; scents of hay and of clover, spice of pine woods, balm of flowers, come floating over the cool waves on the wings of the westwind, and touch one like a breath from Paradise. Few sounds from the shore reach the islands ; the booming of guns is audible, and sometimes, with a west wind, the air is pierced with distant carwhistles, so very remote, however, that they are hardly to be recognized except by a practised ear.

There is a superstition among the islanders that Philip Babb, or some evil-minded descendant of his, still haunts Appledore, and no consideration would induce the more timid to walk alone after dark over a certain shingly beach on that island, at the top of a cove bearing Babb’s name, for there the uneasy spirit is oftenest seen. He is supposed to have been so desperately wicked when alive, that there is no rest for him in his grave. His dress is a coarse, striped butcher’s frock, with a leather belt, to which is attached a sheath containing a ghostly knife, sharp and glittering, which it is his delight to brandish in the face of terrified humanity. One of the Shoalers is perfectly certain that he and Babb have met, and he shudders with real horror, recalling the meeting. This is his story. It was after sunset (of course), and he was coming round the corner of a work-shop, when he saw a wild and dreadful figure advancing toward him ; his first thought was that some one wished to make him the victim of a practical joke, and he called out something to the effect that he “ was n’t afraid ”; but the thing came near with ghastly face and hollow eyes, and, assuming a fiendish expression, took out the knife from its belt and flourished it in the face of the Shoaler, who fled to the house and entered breathless, calling for the person whom he supposed had tried to frighten him. That person was quietly eating his supper, and when the poor fellow saw him he was much agitated, and his belief in Babb fixed more firmly than ever. One spring night some one was sitting on the broad piazza at sunset; it was calm and mild, the sea murmured a little ; birds twittered softly ; there was hardly a waft of wind in the still atmosphere. Glancing toward Babb’s Cove, he saw a figure slowlycrossing the shingle to the path which led to the house. After watching it a moment he called to it, but there was no reply ; again he called, still no answer ; but the dark figure came slowly on, and then he reflected that he had heard no step on the loose shingle that was wont to give back every footfall, and, somewhat puzzled, he slowly descended the steps of the piazza and went to meet it. It was not so dark but that he could see the face and recognize the butcher’s frock and leatherbelt of Babb, but he was not prepared for the devilish expression of malice in that hollow face, and spite of his prosaic turn of mind he was chilled to the marrow at the sight. The white stripes in the frock gleamed like phosphorescent light, so did the awful eyes. Again he called aloud, “ Who are you ? What do you want ? ” and still advanced, when suddenly the shape grew indistinct, first thick and cloudy, then thin, dissolving quite away, and, much amazed, he turned and went back to the house, perplexed and thoroughly dissatisfied. These tales I tell as they were told to me. I never saw Babb, nor ever could, I think. The whole Babb family are buried in the valley of Appledore where the houses stand, and till this year a bowling-alley stood upon the spot, and all the balls rolled over the bones of all the Babbs ; that may have been one reason why the head of the family was so restless ; since the last equinoctial gale blew down the building, perhaps he may rest more peacefully. Babb’s is, I believe, the only real ghost that haunts the islands; though in the loft at the parsonage on Star (a mere creep - hole under the eaves, unattainable by any steps or ladder) there is (in windy weather) the most extraordinary combination of sounds, as if two bluff old fellows were swearing at each other, gruffly, harshly, continually, with a perseverance worthy of a better cause. Really, it is a most disagreeable racket ! A lean, brown, hollow-eyed old woman from Star used to tell how her daughter-in-law died, in a way that took the color out of childish cheeks to hear, for the dying woman thought the ghosts were scratching for her outside, against the house. “ Ma’y Hahner ” (Mary Hannah), she said to me, “a whisperin’, says she, ‘Who’s that scratching, tearing the house down underneath the window ? ’ ‘ No, it ain’t nothin’,’ says I ; ‘ Ma’y Hahner, there ain’t nobody a tearin’ the house down underneath the winder.’ ‘Yes, yes, there is,’ says she, ‘there is ! I hear ’em scratching, scratching, tearing the house down underneath the winder ! ’ And then I know’d Ma’y Hahner was goin’ to die, and so she did afore mornin.”

There is a superstition here and along the coast to this effect. A man gathering drift-wood or whatever it may be, sees a spade stuck in the ground as if inviting him to dig. He is n’t quite ready, goes and empties his basket first, then comes back to investigate, and lo ! there’s nothing there ! and he is tormented the rest of his life with the thought that probably untold wealth lay beneath that spade, which he might have possessed had he only been wise enough to seize the treasure when it offered itself. A certain man named William Mace, living at Star long, long ago, swore that he had had this experience, and there’s a dim tradition that another person seeing the spade passed by about his business, but hastening back, arrived just in time to see the last of the sinking tool, and to perceive also a golden flat-iron disappearing into the earth. This he seized, but no human power could extricate it from the ground, and he was forced to let go his hold and see it sink out of his longing ken

Some young people, camping on the south side of Appledore, one summer, among the ancient graves, dug up a skeleton ; the bones crumbled to dust, but the skull remained intact, and I kept it for a long time. The Shoalers shook their heads. “ Hog Island would have no 'luck' while that skull remained aboveground.” It had lain so long in the earth that it was no more repulsive than a bit of stone, yet a nameless dread invested it. At last I took it in my hands and pored over it till the shudder passed away forever, and then I was never weary of studying it. Sitting by the drift-wood blaze late into the still autumn nights alone at my desk, it kept me company, — a vase of brilliant flowers on one side, the skull on the other, and the shaded lamp between, equally lighting both. A curious head it was, thick as an Ethiop’s, with no space above the eyes, high above the ears, and heavy behind them. But O, those hollows where the eyes once looked out, beholding the same sea and sky we see to-day ! Those great, melancholy, empty hollows, — what sort of creature gazed from them ? Cunning and malice, anger and hate, may have burned within them in sullen flame ; who shall say if any beauty ever illumined them ? If

hate smouldered here, did love ever look out and transfigure the poor, dull face ? did any spark from the far heaven ever brighten it ? any touch of lofty thought or aspiration turn the clay to fire ? And when so many years ago this being glided away from behind these awful windows and left them empty for ever and ever, did he find what in his life here he could not have possessed, with this head, which he did not make, and therefore was not responsible for ? Many and many a question I put silently to the silent casket which had held a human soul; there was no sound to answer me save only the great, gentle whisper of the sea without the windows, and now and then a sigh from the autumn wind. There came to me a sense of the pathos of the infinite patience of humanity, waiting so helplessly and blindly for the unravelling of the riddle that has troubled every thoughtful soul since the beginning of time. Little roots of plants were clasped about the temples. Behind the right ear were three indentations, as if made by some sharp instrument, suggesting foul play. An Indian tomahawk might have made those marks, or a pirate’s cutlass, who can say? What matter is it now ? I kept the relic for months, till it crumbled so fast when I daily dusted it that I feared it would disappear entirely; so I carried it quietly back and laid it in the grave from which it had been taken, wondering, as I drew the shallow earth over it, who had stood round about when it was buried for the first time, centuries ago, what manner of people, and were they afraid or sorry. But there was no voice to answer me.