8 
House & 
Garden 
The quiet of the early afternoon lay over the little seaport and the blue water, as we made our 
way down a cobbled hill 
put into a port in Australia and Captain An¬ 
thony was persuaded to help Fenian prisoners 
to escape, just the game for a man like that— 
feared nothing, always ready for a lark and 
shrewd as well—-a regular Yankee! He sneaked 
the Catalpa with those men on board right out 
under the very noses of the British sloops-of- 
war and, by George! when they put after him 
with his precious booty, he hoisted a huge 
American flag and dared them to fire!” 
The story ended in a blaze of enthusiasm 
and, of course, the cannon followed us home. 
In fact, I struggled very feebly against its ulti¬ 
mate annexation. 
T HERE was a nice kitchen chair of old and 
sturdy lines that I insisted upon acquiring, 
chiefly on account of its modest price, always 
with Mr. Tabor quite the least important factor. 
“Let you folksies have it for just what I paid 
for it, if you take a fancy to it. I like to have 
people really like these things,”—was an oc¬ 
casional reproach to our own mercenary mo¬ 
tives. It never proved a great joy, however, due 
to some irremediable trouble with a 
weak back, and to this day it serves 
to upbraid me if I jeer, even in spirit, 
at the solid little cannon. 
Through Arthur Tabor’s kind offices 
we secured a ship’s model; so delight¬ 
fully faithful and so delicately done 
that it has ever proved a pleasure to 
us, and another larger, all sails set, 
over which a casual sea-faring guest 
gloated an entire evening because he 
had once sailed on the original, the 
Sea Fox, out of New York in the 90’s. 
They hang now over our heads in com¬ 
pany with the rest of our fleet of little 
boats; a brigantine and a four-masted 
schooner, both of later acquisition. 
I wandered into the dark, crowded 
interior of the shop musing over the 
vicissitudes of fortune that had 
brought a fine old chest of drawers 
with opalescent knobs to such an obscure cor¬ 
ner. More than a bit of pathos seemed to con¬ 
front one in the little row of quaint and worn 
childrens’ chairs opposite. An amazing pile 
of unsorted bedposts, some delightfully carved, 
huddled in one corner, and above them, on a 
wide shelf were piled worn beaver hats, old 
style hatboxes, horse-hair covered and brass- 
studded little document trunks and a maggoty 
collection of spice and cheese boxes. 
Certain odds and ends in fashionable de¬ 
mand were being gradually amassed for the 
interior decorator who made the rounds regu¬ 
larly and swept up the entire collection. 
A pile of black tin trays of odd shapes, worn 
and dingy beyond description, with skill and 
care would emerge lovely things, their designs 
of dull gold and faint color artistically and not 
too thoroughly restored. An old kettle, too 
utterly indistinguishable under its coat of soot 
and tarnish, would come from the buffing wheel 
a flaming thing of burnished copper. Several 
dark brown beds of the familiar spiral pattern 
had been herded into a corner and to our ques¬ 
tioning eyebrows came the information that 
there had been great recent demand for them. 
Scraped and carefully enameled in the delicate 
tints beloved of the modern decorator they 
graced many a dainty bedroom. 
T HE lure was upon us—the lure of the past 
that every year saddled us with many non- 
essentials and an expenditure, at least, beyond 
the bounds of common sense. 
It was upon this occasion also that we be¬ 
came the satisfied owners of the brass bell from 
the whaler “Falcon” that now does duty for a 
call to meals on our inland farm; and of a cast 
iron model of a sperm whale designed by a 
committee of the famous Chronometer Club, a 
gathering of the last of the old time whaling 
captains of the port. The whale still hangs, in 
abeyance, as it were, from one of the rafters in 
our studio, awaiting its final disposal in just 
the right place. I sometimes have a whimsical 
fancy that it shares with the bell and other bits 
of nautical loot a certain feeling of the inapt¬ 
ness of its surroundings and a longing for the 
sound and smell of the sea. 
The enthusiastic delight of our host 
over his own tales has always been a 
joy to us, and we lingered there by the 
old show case, charmed by his anec¬ 
dotes, rural gossip, bits of history and 
illuminating scientific information. In 
through the bright space of the open 
door, a neighborly face occasionally 
appeared to shout good morning, or a 
shabby figure hesitated with some bit 
of junk in a newpsaper. For us the 
morning held no greater interest, and 
I am certain our host had no thought 
nearer his heart than our entertain¬ 
ment. Small wonder Mark Twain 
loved to run in there, towing his “poor 
friend” Mr. H. H. Rogers, as he called 
him, and exchanged a rapid fire of wit 
with the proprietor of The Old Curi- 
ositv Shoo. 
