CHAPTER XII 



ALONG THE SALT MARSHES 



When the wind is east Sumner's Islands seems 

 to tug at its moorings like a cruiser swinging at 

 a short hawser in the shelter of Stony beach. If 

 you will stand on the tip of its gray rock prow 

 and face the sea it is hard not to feel the rise and 

 fall of surges under you, and in fancy you have 

 one ear cocked for the boatswain's whistle and 

 the call to the watch to bear a hand and get the 

 anchor aboard. Just a moment and you will feel 

 the pulse of the screw, hear the clink-clank of 

 shovels and slice-bars tinkling faintly up the ven- 

 tilator; one bell will sound in the engine room 

 and under slowest speed she will fall away from 

 the sheltering beach, round the fragrant greenery 

 of the Glades rocks and, free from their buttress- 

 ing, prance exultantly to four bells and a jingle 

 out into the surgent tumult of the roaring sea. 

 Wow ! but the fancy sets your blood to bubbling 

 and your pulse to swinging in rhythm with the 

 long surges that leap about Minot's and froth 



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