OLD BOATS 223 



watch the sunset glow behind the pines on the opposite 

 headland, the pines where the blue herons roost, or to 

 see the moon track on the dancing water. The Post 

 Road is alive with motors now, far into the evening. 

 You get your mail from the little post office beside it as 

 quickly as possible which isn't very quickly, to be 

 sure, for we do not hurry in South County, even when 

 we are employed by Uncle Sam and then you turn 

 down the quiet lane, past the Cap'n's garden, toward the 

 lap of quiet water and the salty smell. Affairs of State 

 are now discussed, of a summer evening, upon the bot- 

 tom of this upturned boat, while a case knife dulled by 

 oyster shells picks out a new initial. And when the fate 

 of the nation is settled, or to-morrow's weather thor- 

 oughly discussed (the two are of about equal importance 

 to us in South County, with the balance in favour of the 

 weather), and the debaters have departed to bed, some 

 of them leaving by water with a rattle of tackle or, more 

 often in these degenerate days, the put, put of an un- 

 muffled exhaust, then other figures come to the upturned 

 boat, speaking softly or not at all, and in the morning 

 you may, perhaps, find double initials freshly cut, with a 

 circle sentimentally enclosing them. So the old craft 

 passes her last days beside the lapping water, a pleasant 

 and a useful end. 



On the other side of the Big House from the pier, 

 at the head of a tiny dredged inlet, there is an old boat- 

 house. It seems but yesterday that we used to warp 



