1 64 "Dead Trees Love the Fire" 



in the sunlight, and the whole Long Island 

 coast is in brilliant relief, with its hills in the 

 background, just beginning to show the first 

 tints of autumn. Our miniature forest is but 

 a five minutes' stroll up to the headland, and 

 the children begin an attack on the last of the 

 blackberries as we go along. Upon reaching 

 our grove I spy my old friend the Cap'n 

 coming along the shore in his cat-boat from a 

 visit to some distant eel-pots, and with the 

 conviction that he may have something worth 

 buying besides eels, I go down to the shore 

 and hail him. I stand high in the Cap'n's 

 consideration just now, that is, as high as any 

 landlubber can ever expect to stand, for I have 

 placed at the side of my writing-desk one of 

 his eel-pots, which I use as a scrap-basket. I 

 got the Cap'n to make it for half-a-dollar, and 

 as I could n't quite make him understand for 

 exactly what purpose I wanted it, as a waste- 

 basket is something he had never heard of, he 

 made me a perfect eel-pot, and having put it 

 in place I called him in and showed him how 

 admirably it served its purpose. It was nauti- 

 cal, ichthyological, and harmonizes with the 



