A TRIP TO HIGHLAND LIGHT. 85 



marking the fish traps of the deluded fishermen 

 whose mackerel fleet has been swept from the 

 sea by this sunken fleet of seine poles. Finally, 

 North Truro was gained, four hours from Boston, 

 and 114 miles by schedule. The bay was at our 

 feet, with Barnstable, Plymouth, and Norfolk 

 shores for its setting. There was the train run- 

 ning away to Provincetown between white sand 

 walls, pointing toward Boston, yet increasing its 

 sand trail from it. Eastward there was a straight 

 white road leading over low sand ridges and broad 

 sand levels up to a tall white lighthouse a mile 

 and a half away. It was Highland Light, hold- 

 ing its great lenses high above the Atlantic, 

 and casting its message of warning or welcome 

 over many a wide league of restless water. The 

 process of hauling a well-loaded carryall through 

 even a short mile and a half of deep sand is 

 painful for horse and trying to half-starved 

 traveller. Both rejoice when such a ride is over. 

 At three o'clock we were standing at the foot 

 of Highland Light, gazing on the novel land- 

 scape which surrounds it. Toward the east the 

 limitless ocean filled the eye. Half a dozen 

 sails were in sight, but no covey of mackerel- 

 men dotted the sea as in the days of Thoreau. 

 The spot where we were standing was the storm- 

 eaten margin of a cliff about 150 feet in height. 

 The cliff is not rock, but sand and clay sur- 



