FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May 17, 1902. 
cool water made the hot deck an agreeable lounging place, 
and then sleeveless, low-necked shirt and duck trousers 
completed my toilet, while C. paddled around bare- 
footed, sleeves rolled to the elbow and hatless, of course, 
and the burning rays of the sun added a layer of bronze 
to our already copper-colored faces. How we used to 
laugh at the delicate creatures which sometimes drifted 
by us at one or another resort, shielding from the friendly 
sun complexions which were already past the danger line 
— but not from nature's applications, and a sudden 
shower ! How they would run ! — the complexions, I mean, 
not the delicate creatures. 
We went ashore and rambled around Spruce Point in 
the thick woods; the air was redolent with the breath 
of the forest and close and warm, but heat has no terrors 
when you can strip down. Was ever any instrument of 
torture worse than a stiff collar and 90 degrees in the 
shade ? I can't breathe with one of the things on. 
Later in the forenoon we ran up to the head of John's 
Bay, to a little place called Bay View, and I walked four 
miles trying to buy., beg or steal a little milk, but without 
success, and was glad enough to get back to the wharf 
and to the little tender and shake the land. Away with 
it. Again up-sail, out into the bay, took a squall of wind 
from a big black cloud which came driving across the 
sky, and which killed what little breeze we had had, so I 
towed her to Squirrel Island, about two miles. 
Next morning for two hours we lay becalmed off 
Green Island at the mouth of the Damariscotta River, and 
never did I experience such heat in northern latitudes. I 
was compelled to move out of the sun into the shadow of 
the sails for a time, and I never remember doing that 
before. The clear, green depths of water under us 
seemed icy in contrast to the air, and when not wholly 
submerged we generally sat on the rail and dragged our 
feet in the water (about twenty fathoms right here), and 
a common saying and a favorite one, as though to add to 
the appreciation of our luck by the sense of others' 
misery, was, "I bet it's hot ashore to-day." Nobody cared 
to take the bet. 
The rays of the sun beat down unmercifully, and while 
inshore we could see the ripple of the failing west wind, 
and off shore a dark blue line which meant a sea breeze, 
we lay between the two in the doldrums and fried. 
On Reed's Island, just inshore, was a three-masted 
schooner ashore and deserted. She looked in^good con- 
dition, and was afterward got off. 
The sea breeze prevailed. At last the heat gave place 
to a glorious volume of ozone and ether, and all the 
cream of pure air from the summer sea, and I pointed her 
bowsprit S.E. by E. 34 E., for a dim blue speck on the 
horizon, where lay, a queen among queens, set a little 
apart in a grandeur all her own, as though to say, If you 
want me, come out here; I am not for the crowd," 
Monhegan ! 
The charm of that island stronghold is all-pervadmg, 
and when we glided into the snug harbor, with barren 
Manana on one hand and wooded Monhegan on the 
other, it seemed like a different world. 
Work, heat, trains, markets, money— what are they? 
Rubbish! The world is only a mile and a half long and 
half a mile wide, and is called Monhegan. 
I will not attempt any historical flights. Drake says 
Monhegan was settled before the colony of Plymouth, and 
it has not grown very fast. (The latter half of that 
statement is original.) About twenty houses comprise 
the most quaint and bewitching town in the United 
States. The diminutive harbor into which you sail, the 
tiny beach of coarse gray sand, the little wharf, the row 
of ancient shanties along the shore, the weather-beaten 
houses of the village, backed by the forest primeval, and 
everywhere the sea, all combine to make a spot which for 
years has drawn artists to its shrine (whether they at- 
tempted to transfer the picture in their souls to canvas, or 
lacking the art, though artists still, kept it yet more truth- 
ful in their own hearts), and which offers to lovers of 
nature her woric almost at first hand. 
No trolley with its clustered contents can invade this 
haven; no electric lights turn night into day. No one 
comes here to show his clothes or his turnouts or to get 
his name in the papers. But would you breathe nectar, 
bathe in wine, roam in paradise, be at sea and yet on 
land, would you find forest and cliffs and fields as they 
first appeared to the eyes of your forefathers, go to 
Monhegan. 
I look back upon the day we spent there as one in a 
thousand. The sense of isolation is supreme; you can 
just make out the main land to the north, a low streak of 
blue; it is five miles to the nearest island and thirteen to 
Boothbay, the port of communication. 
Our first thought on the following morning was of a 
visit to the cliffs on the southeast side of the islands, and 
the view that burst upon our gaze as we mounted the 
brow of those cliffs ! 
A few months before I had crossed the Rocky Moun- 
tains and the Cascade Range, and the view from - the 
summit of the highest peaks into valleys where probably 
human beings had never set foot, did not impress me as 
did one cautious first look from the tops of those tre- 
mendous rocks. 
The sea at the base seemed a mile -away, and you could 
judge of the height, only by pitching a stone overboard 
and watching its slow descent. Cruel tales those rocks 
could tell of ships that touched and disappeared. Our 
chart gives the depth off Block Head close in shore as 
sixty fathoms. The stone you threw sank 360 feet to 
bottom. Off White Head (the middle cliff) is a depth 
of twenty-three fathoms; off Lobster Point (southern 
end), fifty fathoms, and all around the island close in are 
soundings of 24. 31, 13, 17, 14, 27, 13, 15. 10, back to 
the 60 at Black Head. We spe'nt most of that forenoon 
under the trees on the cliffs, gazing seaward. There 
was hardly any wind, just a breath roughening the surface 
of the water in spots, and for miles the eye could sweep 
the ocean, unbroken save by a few coasters and the 
mackerel fleet to the eastward. It was too inspiring to 
talk about. Words are meaningless. 
At the post-office, which was in one end of a weather- 
stained dwelling, we asked for a postal card. The post- 
mistress, after a long fumbling search in an old desk, 
gave it up. "I can't seem to find one jest now. Be you 
stopping here?" 
"Never mind, an envelope will do just as well. You 
have a grand view here." 
I peered through a window which, from the atmos- 
phere of the room, had not been opened that season. 
"Yes, some folks like it, but it is pretty rough in win- 
ter ; the wind is awful. That's a picture of my son. He 
was lost last winter round to White Head hauling his 
pots." I thought of those rocks and that sixty fathoms. 
"He was only eighteen. They tried to keep him from 
going, there was such a sea running, but he laughed at 
'em. They picked up the wreck of his dory afterward — 
they never found him." 
We did not linger. The sea charms its victims and 
then swallows them. 
A bath on the beach in water as clear as crystal and 
warm as heart could desire prepared us for dinner, after 
which we again wandered over the island. 1 
The one excitement here is the arrival of the boat. The 
whole population turns out to greet the new arrivals, and 
the wharf for the time being contains about every man, 
woman, child and dog in town. 
That morning after the barrels of coal and potatoes and 
trunks and the assorted cargo which the needs of the vil- 
lage had brought together had been landed, there came 
a little procession bearing a stretcher with a lad of eight 
or ten thereon, his white thin face showing long confine- 
ment and sickness. The stevedores stopped their jibes 
and country witticisms, the summer people showed the 
sympathy they felt by their half-uttered words of com- 
passion, "the idlers fishing on the capsill neglected their 
lures, and a hush seemed to fall on all as the little fellow 
was borne up the wharf. May pines and sea and rocks and 
fields and salt breezes and sun have done their work ere 
this, Monhegan! Save life as well as take it! 
-We already seemed settled here; it would not take 
long to get acquainted with everybody in town. On the 
third day with genuine regret we hove up and passed out 
by the steamer at the wharf. 
"Where now?" sung out an acquaintance of a day. 
"Camden." 
"That's the stuff. Bon voyage," and we waved our 
farewells and overheard one lady remark to a friend, 
"They are cruising around in that little yacht. What 
fun ! They belong in Lowell, I believe." 
The steamer carries the passengers, but the little 
schooner Effort carries the mails. When the steamer is 
at her dock with the trunks, the schooner with the mail 
is becalmed a few miles away, just within sight, and 
shows up the next morning. But the schooner won't give 
up the contract formed before the steamer was put on, so 
the summer people have to wait for their mail. But who 
wants mail on Monhegan? Chuck it in a barrel, I say, 
and let it drift, and if it gets to the island, all right, and 
if not. all right. Since writing the above I noticed the 
following item in the marine news: 
"Capt. William S. Humphrey, the veteran skipper of 
the mail packet Effort, that has carried the mail to Mon- 
hegan. Me., for so many years, has obtained from the 
Post Office Department the assurance that he can carry 
a daily mail during June, July, August and September, 
instead of July and August only, providing he will put 
power in the vessel that takes the mail. Capt. Humphrey 
is arranging for gasoline engines for Effort." 
Good-by, Monhegan. Thou art apart from the rest, 
above and alone in a class" of thine own, inimitable and 
invincible. Isle of beaut}', fare thee well. 
Our course from Monhegan was N.E. fy$ E., and with 
the wind a trifle to the S. of E., we pushed along close 
hauled on the starboard tack, sixteen miles to Whitehead 
Light, through the Mussel Ridges and Owl's Head Bay 
and squared away for Camden as the fog came rolling in. 
Great fleecy masses strung ahead of us on both sides, hid- 
ing the land and islands one after- another, and finally we 
were enveloped in a thick, damp mist, which, .with the in- 
creasing darkness, made all observation impossible; but 
the wind held fair and light. I had had a sight of the 
Graves a few miles ahead just before it shut down, and 
a couple of hours later, after my mOuth had begun to 
tire of the taste of the old tin horn, we discovered them 
dead ahead, and another mile or so brought us within 
sound of the faint tones of the bell on Negro Island, and 
about 9 o'clock we let go in Camden Harbor, another 
beauty spot of the Maine coast. 
The Maine coast has no rival. I doubt whether _ an 
equal stretch of shore anywhere can show such variety 
of beauty and grandeur as the hundred-odd miles from 
Portland to Mt. Desert. It seems as though nature had 
brought to a focus here all of the best in sea, country, 
mountain and forest, for you have them all within sight, 
and can leave your yacht — in which an hour before you 
were thrashing about in the open and passing peaceful 
forms of -woodlands — lose yourself in the forest inside of 
another hour, or in yet another look upon a panorama of 
all combined from the summit of some towering moun- 
tain. But description is useless. To live in the air 
of those hills and forests and waters is to acquire a love 
for the region that cannot be expressed nor hinted at; 
you can only say Oh ! Oh ! and then keep quiet. 
The schooner George W. Wells, at whose launching we 
had hoped to be present, lay at the wharf, and our first 
visit was to her. 
It was worth a long journey to see a craft like that. 
At that time she was, and I believe now is, the largest 
schooner in the world, some 34°ft. long, if I remember. 
However, my first impression was one of amusement. 
Such huge dimensions, and everything on such a scale 
that it had the effect of some Jumbo or giant in a circus. 
The fore topmast would have made a mainmast for a 
large vessel, and the immense bowsprit, chains and tim- 
bers were almost laughable. From the wheelhouse aft 
the deck stretched away like a boulevard lined with 
telegraph poles, and you got all mixed up on the masts. 
We overheard many discussions as to the names of the 
masts. Fore, main, mizzen, spanker, jigger and driver, 
seemed to be the popular nomenclature, but what will 
they do when they put in seven or eight sticks? How 
would ringtail and royal do for Nos. 7 and 8? 
I should like to have had some of our free traders on 
the deck of that schooner and have asked them whether 
we had better buy that class of vessels abroad or build 
them at home. They don't build them abroad, and they 
are absolutely protected in the coastwise trade for which 
they are intended, and the most convincing unanswerable 
and unassailable argument in favor of protection and 
plenty of it stood there in the shape of that magnificent 
craft, designed, built, officered and manned (all or in 
part), by American brain, brawn and bullion, and any 
foreigner, alongside of that triumph, would look like a 
nickel and a quarter — Canadian at that. 
Camden charmed us into a three days' stay. One day 
I climbed the mountain, 1,300ft. above, and almost over- 
hanging the harbor. From that height the beautiful lines 
of the schooner were revealed, her great size concealing 
her true proportions from a nearer point of view, and 
the litle craft that had borne us so far lay but a speck on 
the water. 
Ramble's around the town, baths in the cove, visits to 
the schooner, excursions after milk and provisions, and 
long happy hours day dreaming- on the deck in the sun, in 
perfect contentment, to simply gaze at the hills and bay, 
consumed our time till Sunday (we had got track of the 
days again), when the captain announced her intention 
to go home. 
"But we haven't been down the bay yet." 
"I don't care; we've been gone three weeks, and I 
want to go home." 
"But can't you stand it a couple of weeks longer? 
There's Castine and Southwest Harbor and Somerville 
and Isle au Haut " 
"I'm going home! You stay and go as far as you 
want to, but I am going home!" That settled it. Who 
would steer, five or six points wide, each side of the 
course, while I was busy forward? Who would spread 
sofa pillows and books and fancy work all over the deck 
and give that touch of femininity to the craft which 
adds so much to the enjoyment of a life afloat? Who 
would give timely warning of the fact that we were head- 
ing straight for those rocks, two miles away? So home 
we started, but a strong head wind kept us in Rockland 
one day; then a long beat, retracing our course through 
the Mussel Ridge Channel, round Mosquito Head and 
into Herring Gut, a-kiting in a southwester that blew 
almost all night and kept us jumping with two anchors 
down; then a long slow sail to Boothbay, arriving after 
dark, and another day of slow progress and head winds 
to Portland. 
The latter part of this sail was characteristic. We 
were off Chebeague at dark. I started the fire and C. 
commenced on the dinner. The wind was southwest and 
fairly fresh, and our course necessitated frequent tacking 
against a head tide, and in the darkness we naturally lost 
more or less, as between keeping lookout and steering 
and tending head sheets and keeping clear of the islands, 
very fine windward work could not be expected. All this 
prolonged the preparation of dinner, which was con- 
ducted under conditions shown by the following : 
"Below |" 
"Well?" 
"We're coming about in a minute. Look out for 
things !" 
"All right!" 
"Hard a-lee," and we are around on the other tack, 
while C. would grab the coffee pot with one hand and 
the spider with the other and wait until it seemed safe 
to release them. 
The faint tinkle of broken glass came up after the first 
time we laid over to a puff. 
"Oh, dear! There's the chimney gone all over the 
floor and I can't see' a thing!" 
"Light the cabin lamp." 
A few sudden gleams, half-smothered expressions of 
disgust, two or three more matches wasted, and the cabin 
lamp is working and I have to close the_ companionway 
doors to prevent the blinding light from interfering with 
the steering. 
"Ready about." 
"All right," fainter this time. 
"Hard a-lee," and I jam the helm down, poke down to 
leeward and let fly the head sheets, poke down to lee- 
ward again and make them fast, and then climb up on the 
weather rail to find out where we are. 
A sudden cry of dismay and impatience filters out 
through the fore scuttle. 
"There goes the coffee pot; I can't do a thing. Can't 
you keep her up straight?" 
More banging of tinware and clatter of iron - things 
hitting something; a half-hour of this sort of thing re- 
sults in a feeble odor of burning potatoes drifting aft, and 
my hopes brighten. 
"Guess I'll anchor here; this is far enough," and we 
drop off peaks and attack what survived of the meal, with 
the appetite that eight or nine hours of outdoors creates. 
But the sleep that follows, and the rude health that 
comes, that laughs at wet clothing and cold winds and 
bare heads, and the muscle that grows with every pull 
at the ropes. Nobody has nerves east of Cape Ann. 
Larly morning found us in Portland, and the crew left, 
ran away, deserted, and I was left alone. ' 
While coming up the harbor I had seen a familiar craft; 
even at the distance of a mile or two the jumper stays 
leading to the bluff of the bow and the two flies, one each 
at mizzen and jigger topmast head, told me that the long 
deeply loaded -craft was the Jennie French Potter, with 
the genial Capt. Joe Potter in command, and I was not 
long in making myself known, and a merry crew I found. 
Two or three daughters with school friends, and the 
captain's wife, had made the trip from Philadelphia. Here 
was yachting for you, a sweep of deck nearly 300ft. long 
and plenty of room. A jolly crowd sat around that din- 
ner table, and the steward had his hands full. As he 
termed it, the trip up the coast had been a "regular 
rumpus 'fore de Lawd," but he looked very glum when 
the gang went over the side and left the once lively decks 
deserted, save by the cook and the old mate, who waved 
farewell as we pulled away. 
I pulled back to the Potter in my tender, hoisted her 
in on deck and sat on the rail all the evening with the 
mate. 
The full moon hung in the heavens, the air was breath- 
less, the deeply laden hull of the schooner, with 3,400 tons 
of coal under the hatches, lay like a rock, showing 
scarcely five feet of freeboard, and the mate told me of 
trips long and short, of gales and impromptu race's, and 
the details of a life which seems so commonplace to the 
men who live it and is so fascinating to the lay mind. 
The morning brought a strong northerly, which I 
foolishly allowed to blow without starting out, but took 
a long walk off toward Yarmouth or Falmouth, and 
started the morning after. I was anxious to get home 
now. Our log so far had been a record of calms and 
head winds and fogs and rain and slow passages, the zest 
had been taken out of the cruise, I didn't get enough to 
eat. and, the Galveston "breeze" was on the way, sq J 
