Dec. 29, 1906.I 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
102 1 
loomed in the woods near- the boat. The rise 
was all of four feet high, and on one side of 
it among the pines and a few hardwoods, was 
a grave with a wooden headstone. Beyond the 
woods was a bit of flat land which had been 
cleared and planted to wheat. Some orchard 
trees, some berry bushes and a tiny garden com¬ 
pleted the agricultural arrangements. The 
house was raised above the ground on piles, and 
evidently the tides sometimes overflow most of 
the little “dry land” in sight. 
Having found the fishermen at home, Rusk 
learned the way. None of the family had ever 
been in a gasolene boat, so Rusk gave all hands 
a ride—men, women and children. Far as they 
were from “anywhere,” luck was with the family. 
That morning the nets in the bay reached 
through narrow inlets, contained 250 shad and 
4.000 herring—more than $140. In two months’ 
fishing the year’s living is earned. They called 
the creeks “ditches,” and said that they were 
“lined with oysters.” One man there went into 
a little hole and tonged a hundred bushels one 
day. With such fishing and such oystering, and 
a little patch of garden truck and fruit, it would 
be strange if people did not go there to live, 
in spite .of mosquitoes, malaria and isolation. 
The fishermen did not think we could get 
through to Golden Hill on the Honga River, 
because the way was long, and “prongs” that 
lead into pockets numerous. Still, they helped 
11s all they could, which was enough: We were 
to turn to the left-at third prong down, not 
counting such and such little ditches. If we 
made a mistake, we’d find ourselves running 
out into the Chesapeake, or bringing up at 
somebody’s landing. All the way they promised 
we would find mud and sand bars disputing our 
progress. Some places were especially bad, 
and these were wide ones, sure to confuse us. 
Nevertheless, w.e started, and once out of the 
broadwater-—deep enough because of rising tide 
now—we came into the narrow way which was 
far from straight. Standing on the bow, pole 
in hand, I could see for a mile or more. In 
every direction were patches and gleams of 
water, our own course taking us toward every 
point of the compass. We recognized the bay 
prong easily enough, but ahead of us were other 
prongs which were unmapped, and which the 
fishermen had failed to mention. There were 
Z-angles and S-turns, and our way was far from 
clear. Once we ran into a bay-like pocket on 
the far side of which some men were rolling 
logs into the water, making ready to raft them 
down the creek to the bay. We couldn’t get 
within 100 rods of them by any channel we 
found in the bay, so we turned back arid fol¬ 
lowed new “prongs” and creeks. 
Long since we had lost track and count of 
the prongs and ditches. At last, however,' we 
came to a bend in the marsh, and in the dis¬ 
tance discovered a group of buildings and a 
bridge. We had a final wrestle with obscure 
and devious waterways, landing on a mud bar 
in a wide-water when almost within reach of 
the channel, and then slid down into deep, nar¬ 
row waters. Long since Rusk had ceased to go 
on a “slow bell.” Jamming the controller to 
its highest notch, we plugged ahead at full 
speed, regardless of what was ahead. 
The last half mile was all deep, narrow water, 
and we came to the bank near a pleasant home 
on a knoll in the marsh. Ahead of us, just be¬ 
yond the bridge was the Honga River, miles 
wide, and not more than two feet deep on the 
average. At low tide the flats are exposed over 
hundreds of acres. Here is great hunting at 
times, geese and ducks coming in by thousands. 
Decoys on the bank indicated that the birds did 
not escape unscathed. 
Jerome Travis lived in the pleasant, tree-sur¬ 
rounded house. He told us that the little creek 
was lined with oysters, which his mother-in-law 
cultivated with great profit. In the fall “rock,” 
or striped bass, come into the creeks till the 
water is alive with them. The tide current is 
too swift for nets, .so few are taken. But one 
can get a barrel full with hook and line. 
Here Rusk found an opportunity for argu¬ 
ment. The fine old lady of the house was an 
ardent Methodist, and Rusk explained to her 
some of the mysteries of Buddha, Mohammed, 
telepathy, Indian beliefs, etc. It was in talking 
on mental telepathy that Rusk made his listeners 
straighten up and stare. 
“My wife and I don’t have to write to each 
other,” he would say. “If anything happened to 
me, she’d know it instantly. And I’d know if 
anything happened to her.” 
He would say it with a droll earnestness that 
left a listener wondering whether to laugh or 
be polite. Sometimes, after he had been hold¬ 
ing forth for a while, listeners would come 
around to me and want to know what I thought 
of Rusk and his stories. 
“You mus’ know something about him!” one 
said. “ ’Pears like you must have seen him do 
some of those things-—can he realy talk to hisn’s 
wife way off yonder?” 
Travis showed us the way across Honga 
River flats to the channel, and pointed out the 
landmarks we should steer by. Once past a 
certain fleet of boats we would be in plenty of 
water, and then could head straight for Fishing 
Creek, our next destination. 
We saw Fishing Creek from afar. The white 
buildings there were unmistakable. We bore 
down on them and were for heading straight 
into the bridge, but as we approached the creek, 
men rose from seats in the lee of a crabpacker’s 
shed, and raised their hats high in the air, yell¬ 
ing warnings. Rusk jammed the wheel hard 
down, and came about, and just in time, for we 
were headed for a long reef, from which it 
would have been a difficult matter to get afloat, 
for it was-high tide. Our chart showed sound¬ 
ings, and we cleared the reef and came into the 
creek. 
The “creek” was a mere strait connecting 
Honga River and Tar Bay. Across the creek 
was a pile bridge with a wooden drawbridge 
having a 26-foot span. This was the main high¬ 
way from Cainbridge. Leaping from island to 
island, the road crossed the flatlands through a 
most interesting region, running down the 
Hooper chain of islands and finally ending in 
the waving marsh grass of the “Lower Island.” 
Over this route came the mail every day, stop¬ 
ping at each post office where it was greeted 
by a crowd coming to see the little bunch of 
letters “sorted.” 
Our engine was quickly the center of attrac¬ 
tion. Every man there was a bayman, and they 
all talked of their boats' their merits and their 
requirements, as down east farmers discuss 
mowing machines, cows and fertilizers. Some¬ 
how, the lives of some classes of people seem to 
have so much more in them than others. Here 
were men whose daily lives had in them the 
full flavor, the lively romance of the undulating 
waters, while inland were others bounded by 
the four corners of their fields. It is true that 
one can stand over his potatoes and grow en¬ 
thusiastic as the vines grow up, and as the 
beetles are fought back. One can find depth 
and breadth and height of rare loveliness in a 
farmer’s life, especially if the fields climb the 
slopes toward the skies as in some Alleghany 
valleys. But to my mind, such lives cannot 
rival those of the island men whose outlook is 
upon the sea, and whose thoughts are saturated 
with salt water. Man for man, class for class, 
the real, gripping enthusiasm of love for one’- 
work is found oftener among those who follow 
the sea, or the forest, than among the grubbers 
of the soil. It looks as though the rougher, 
more dangerous occupation called to them the 
men with strains of heroism in their souls, for 
who else would stay down by the sea facing its 
storms, cut by sun and sleet, braving many 
heroic kinds of death, when greater profit could 
be had inland? But no— 
“Would I change with my brother a league inland? 
’Ware shoal! ’Ware shoal! Not I!” 
We were tied to the bridge, and under us 
were the bones of an old schooner which had 
been fiung there by a storm, and sunk against 
the piling. Above the water, against the woods 
and houses were masts, and along the water 
front were little craft, including hunting punts 
like little board canoes. Every boy, apparently, 
came down to the water’s edge to play. They 
jumped in and out of the boats, and paddled the 
loose ones to and fro, experimenting with the 
oars. If one climbed a tree, it was to swing 
ropes from the limbs. Even the men tied knots 
of many kinds with strings, or whittled boat 
models with their knives. No matter in what 
direction one looked, or with whom one talked, 
there was no interest save that the water had to 
offer. Even the pretty girl who clerked in her 
father’s store at the end of the bridge came in 
a little sailboat rather than walk half the dis¬ 
tance along the road. A young man sailed 
across the Honga Sound to call on his sweet¬ 
heart, tying his craft to the bridge as handily as 
a farmer lad would hitch a horse. The steamer 
landing was eight miles away, and when the 
islanders went to town, they rowed or sailed 
down to the dock, and left their boats tied there 
till their return from Baltimore or whatever 
other place they had gone to. 
We were in an uncomfortable berth. Fishing 
Creek was a mere strait between the Honga 
and Tar Bay, and the waves washed in out of 
the wide water in a disquieting way. A great, 
whirling storm was coming up, the wind veering 
slowly from point to point of the compass. 
Down in the west, across Tar Bay, black clouds 
rose as night came- on the second day of our 
stay. Look what way we might, there was no 
shelter for us from the west or east winds. Two 
sloops were tied to the end of the crabbing 
dock beside the bridge. A little half-inch 
line was all that held them fast, although a big 
anchor cable led out into the creek. To this 
single-strand I added two or three good stout 
ropes which were coiled up on the decks. Then 
we swung the Virgie Lee astern of one of the 
sloops by a fairly' long line, and passed the 
night riding a moderate, but most disquieting 
sea. We couldn’t tell when the wind would shift 
far enough to swing us back broadside against 
the dock or boats. Rain fell at intervals, pound¬ 
ing like sleet on the cabin top—wood covered 
with canvas. Each shower brought a shift in 
the wind, and each shift meant a look around in 
order to be sure that we were safe. We had 
to keep a sharp notion in mind of what we 
would do in certain contingencies, and be ready 
to do it. Then, the first we knew, we Were 
aground. Our boat swung around against the 
mud beside the dock, and stuck. We couldn’t 
push off, and we could only wait for the com¬ 
ing of the tide. Fortunately, the waves were 
from a safe quarter during the interval, else 
we would have had them rolling- in over the 
side. 
In the morning we were afloat once more, and 
we had 60 stir out at daybreak to retie to the 
dock, for one of the sloops was going out to 
the pounds. It was a great sight to see the 
little skimming dish, 39-footer, whirl around and 
head out for Tar Bay in the gale. They had a 
time of it out at the nets, too, for the wind 
was worse than ever. They could get only 
about half the shad out of their nets, and when 
they got their fish boat to the schooner, they 
had to leave the anchor buoyed, being unable to 
get it up. While she was still in Tar Bay, the 
pound of the waves against her sides, and the 
roar of the “bone in her jaws” was distinctly 
audible. She came in to the dock, and proved 
to have 220 shad, and bushels of herring—both 
kinds of fish being the largest they had ever 
taken. Some of the herring were put ashore in 
boxes, but the shad must go to the steamer 
landing eight miles down Honga Sound. 
A good crowd -was down to see the catch, 
most of the men being clad in oil skins. Some 
few bought a hundred herring at 50 cents a 
hundred, but most of them wanted only a 
“mess” at a cent apiece. Having sold what he 
could, the captain got ready to cast off, and two 
men ran out on the draw to run the bridge-way 
open. The gale was now from almost south, 
and the boat was lying against the north side 
of the creek. To clear the dock, get headway 
and not hit the mud flat straight ahead was the 
captain’s task. The crew—two men—got the 
boat clear of the dock by hauling in the anchor 
line, and jerked the anchor off the bottom. 
Then one ran to hoist the sail, but the wind 
was too much for him, and the boat was driven 
broadside into the mud. Thereupon the on¬ 
lookers howled. The sloop’s crew loked angry, 
and set' grimly to the task of poling off with 
