At the Water’s Edge 
train for Sayville, a town on the south shore of 
Long Island. This was only a means to anend, 
the end being a swamp in one of the chain of 
islands that forms the outer boundary of Great 
South Bay, which at this point is about six 
miles wide. The island in question is a de- 
serted swamp and sand-bar during nine months 
of the year, and quite populous the other three, 
as it is then occupied by a branch of the Chau- 
tauqua Circle, from which it gets the name of 
Chautauqua Landing. In the swamp that covers 
a part of the island I had been told that the lit- 
tle white heron, one of the rarest and most del- 
icate birds that come from the South, had been 
found nesting the previous year, and I made the 
trip expressly for the purpose of finding it. 
On reaching the shore I found that the small 
steamer that during the summer plies between 
the main land and the island was not yet in 
commission, and if I was to cross the Bay it 
must be by some slower conveyance, and by 
private contract. Accordingly I chartered a 
small yacht, with a young skipper and _ his still 
more juvenile friend to manage it—or her, to 
be nautical. The run across the Bay was very 
fine, until the inexperienced skipper, attempt- 
ing to make a short cut, on approaching the 
183 
