DEAD TREES LOVE THE FIRE. l6l 



doubtful when I tell him that it is to burn. 

 For the Cap'n also has his ideas about queer 

 people who waste a whole day and sail ten 

 miles to get a lot of pine knots that any " nig- 

 ger" would have delivered for a two-dollar bill. 

 The Cap'n's notion of otium cum dignitate is 

 probably an unfailing supply of tobacco, and an 

 endless conference around the village store stove 

 upon the affairs of the neighborhood and the 

 nation. I told him once that I should think 

 he would enjoy making eel-pots, for the work 

 has a certain fascination about it this weaving 

 together of strong, supple twigs of oak, the 

 converting of an old log into hundreds of pots 

 that will do duty for years. Every day the 

 Cap'n can feel that he has produced something 

 of value, which is more than a great many 

 more pretentious people I know of can say. 

 Down comes the sail, and while the boys tie it 

 up and make the ropes ship-shape for the night, 

 we gather up our traps and start for the house, 

 leaving the Cap'n deep in thought, as he 

 squints first at the horizon and then at our 

 little pile of logs. Even twelve hours of open 

 air have not quite satisfied me, and were it not 

 for several letters to write and a good many 



