196 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



and we, ignorant of our loss, be none the poorer. 

 We should live on, — the eyeless fish in the 

 Mammoth Cave live on, — but life, neverthe- 

 less, would not be so well worth living. For it 

 would be flatter, with less of wave-wet freshness 

 and briny gusto. No kitchen-mixed seasoning 

 can supply the wild, natural flavors of life; no 

 factory-made sensations the joy of being the nor- 

 mal, elemental, primitive animal that we are. 



The clam is one of the natural flavors of life, 

 and no longer ago than when I was a freshman 

 was considered one of life's necessities. Part of 

 the ceremony of my admission to college was a 

 clambake down the Providence River — such a 

 clambake as never was down any other river, 

 and as never shall be again down the Providence 

 River, unless the Rhode Island clam-diggers take 

 up their barren flats and begin to grow clams. 



This they will do ; our new and general alarm 

 would assure us of that, even if the Massachu- 

 setts clam-diggers were not leading the way. But 

 Rhode Island already has one thriving clam 

 farm of her own at Rumstick Point along the 

 Narragansett. The clam shall not perish from our 

 tidal flats. Gone from long reaches where once it 



