138 CHANNEL ISLANDS OF CALIFORNIA 



noon I take a ride over the range to see if the sheep 

 are all right, then I cook my supper; and my friends, 

 the wild foxes, come around. In? Sure. First they 

 came only near the house and cried; then they came 

 to the door; now they come in and take bits of meat 

 from my hands. Fine Httle animals." 



On the wall hung an olive bottle filled with what I 

 supposed to be gin or gasoline, so clear and crystal- 

 like was it. I asked him what it was. 



"Why, water," he replied. "I hang him there, 

 he 's so beautiful." 



A bottle of clear, pure water! Who but Chinetti 

 would have thought of using it as a picture? A bottle of 

 water! I began to see that my companion was a poet. 



"And what do you do after dinner?" I asked. 



"Oh," replied Chinetti, "I go out sometime and 

 look at the stars and listen to the wind and sea. You 

 hear him?" 



We both listened, and the strange weird roar was 

 like the deep notes of an organ, the requiem of the 

 sea; it shook the very house. 



"You like the sea, eh?" 



"Yes," I repeated. "I like it, and I see how you 

 make company out of it." 



"It not always good," laughed Chinetti. 



Then he told me how he was nearly wrecked here, 

 and finally blown away to San Diego. And I told him 

 of a cyclone I hammered out once in a full-rigged ship 

 when we expected to have to cut away the masts. 



"Then," said Chinetti, "I play my guitar to the 

 foxes, yes, and then, before I turn in, I read my books. 

 Yes, look at the pictures and laugh. It's a good thing 

 to laugh, seiior." 



