HOUSE AND GARDEN 
July, 
1914 
up a narrow cove and tied up for half an hour to discharge 
freight at a barnacled wharf, beside which lay a scrap of a fish¬ 
ing village where the shore was fringed by lobster pots and fish¬ 
ermen’s cottages straggled untidily over a grassy ledge. 
Late in the afternoon we reached Land's End. 
Where is Land’s End? 
We asked that question the first time we heard of it. The 
place is not important enough to have a spot on the map. The 
wonderful individual who 
sits behind an information 
desk at the railroad station 
shook his head when we 
asked him about Land's 
End. It was not within 
i the area of his territorial 
knowledge. Still, I knew 
>J it lay waiting for us in 
some hazy limbo of green¬ 
ness and sunshine inviting 
us to come. Somewhere 
upon its edge stood a cot¬ 
tage called the Penguin, 
for we had rented it for a 
summer, sight unseen. We 
had seen pictures of it 
perched at the end of a 
clover field with its feet in 
the ocean and a gnarled 
spruce sheltering it with 
wide stretching branches. 
So we voyaged 
northward with 
the serene assur¬ 
ance of adventur¬ 
ers on an un¬ 
known sea. 
Land’s End is 
like scores of 
other green pe- 
n i n s u 1 a s we 
passed on our 
way from Port¬ 
land, and yet to¬ 
tally unlike them 
because after one 
summer spent in 
its beautiful lone¬ 
liness, we think 
of it as the only 
spot on earth. 
Out at sea lies the 
misty profile of 
Monhegan and 
bald-headed, 
weedy little is¬ 
lands dot the At¬ 
lantic as far as the eye can reach. Between these lies Land's End. 
It basks in the sunshine, crooking its elbow about a harbor where 
the water merely wrinkled that first day we saw it. Little boats 
pulled listlessly at their painters, making shadows of green or 
red or white in the still water, and a fleet of becalmed yachts 
lay near by as if sleeping. Up a ridge, whitened by daisies, wan¬ 
dered a long field with a ragged stone dyke from shore to hill 
top separating it from a blueberry pasture. In friendly clumps 
beside it stood white birches and young pines. A thicket of wild 
roses beyond the reach of a mower’s scythe clambered over 
the lichened stones and added a touch of color to the scene. 
The ridge was crowned by a sturdy farmhouse built about a 
square chimney, the sort of chimney our forefathers reared in 
grim defiance of wild Atlantic storms and a winter’s cold. The 
village between us and Land’s End was an ugly place, dotted 
with absurd little cottages. It held a weather-beaten fish-packing 
factory, a wave-washed pier and two smug churches. Only what 
cared we how ugly it was, Land’s End was quite another world. 
We entered this other 
world through a queer, pic¬ 
turesque archway with 
Land’s End carved on its 
top beam. A thicket of 
birches crowded about the 
gate and a narrow bridge 
spanned a bubbling spring 
at its threshold. 
We skirted a grove of 
pines, waded knee-deep 
through clover, daisies and 
blue-eyed grass, then we 
caught our first glimpse of 
the Penguin. Although we 
have cottaged in the Pen¬ 
guin for three months— 
and one ought to become 
fairly well accustomed to a 
home in three months—I 
still see it every day as it 
looked at the first glance. 
It is a small, shin¬ 
gled cottage, sil¬ 
vered by sun and 
snow, ridiculous¬ 
ly small it seemed 
to us at first, but 
surprisingly spa¬ 
cious inside, en¬ 
ticingly home-like 
and artistic be¬ 
yond anything 
dreamed of by a 
wandering lesee 
When we arrived 
that afternoon 
the tide was high 
and the waves 
splashed at the 
foot of the piazza 
steps. 
Other cottages 
at Land’s End 
shelter at the 
edge of pine 
woods and turn 
their faces either 
to the harbor or the open ocean. The Penguin nestled with its 
back to the daisied field which stretched from the shore to the 
farmhouse on the ridge. 
“How did you dream of setting here in this delightful lone¬ 
someness ?” I asked the artist-architect, who is the developing 
spirit of Land’s End. 
“That did it,’’ he answered. 
“That’’ was the gnarled old spruce. It stood with its roots 
buried deep among the rocks and shingles of the beach. It had 
grown so lofty that it dominated the landscape. Country folks 
Beyond the kitchen door, with its curious lantern, is the hay field and a stone dike 
covered with wild roses. Stretching across the back is a pergola with rough 
logs for pillars 
The front yard of the Penguin is a quiet cove in the harbor sheltered by the spruces, and with little steps in the 
rock ledge down to the beach 
