At the Water's Edge 



train for Sayville, a town on the south shore of 

 Long Island. This was only a means to an end, 

 the end being a swamp in one of the chain of 

 islands that forms the outer boundary of Great 

 South Bay, which at this point is about six 

 miles wide. The island in question is a de- 

 serted swamp and sand-bar during nine months 

 of the year, and quite populous the other three, 

 as it is then occupied by a branch of the Chau- 

 tauqua Circle, from which it gets the name of 

 Chautauqua Landing. In the swamp that covers 

 a part of the island I had been told that the lit- 

 tle white heron, one of the rarest and most del- 

 icate birds that come from the South, had been 

 found nesting the previous year, and I made the 

 trip expressly for the purpose of iinding it. 



On reaching the shore I found that the small 

 steamer that during the summer plies between 

 the main land and the island was not yet in 

 commission, and if I was to cross the Bay it 

 must be by some slower conveyance, and by 

 private contract. Accordingly I chartered a 

 small yacht, with a young skipper and his still 

 more juvenile friend to manage it — or her, to 

 be nautical. The run across the Bay was very 

 fine, until the inexperienced skipper, attempt- 

 ing to make a short cut, on approaching the 

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