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FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Nov. z 3 . 1908. 
or two of those fish right now. We enjoyed 
watching the toad fish blow themselves up, the 
sea robins, ling, skates, the mackerel that darted 
about, looking for all the world like half-pound 
trout—and talking with the fishermen that were 
coming in from sea bass fishing. They had a 
bushel to each boat which made us resolve to 
try the sea bass next day off Green Hill. 
In the kitchen, beside the warm fire at Captain 
Tuttel’s that night, the old hands got to spin¬ 
ning yarns of the sea. We had been out watch¬ 
ing the lights on Race Rock and Little Gull 
Island, mooring our boat and studying the sky. 
The hour for rest and reverie had come. Mr. 
Fvler had been for six years with the life sav¬ 
ing crew,at Montauk; Mr. Grimshaw, the other 
member of our party, had followed the sea, too. 
The cook had always cooked for seafaring men. 
My father having gone back to East Hampton 
by rail (Fort Pond is the terminus of the rail¬ 
road) I was the only smooth water sailor in 
the crowd. 
“The roughest water I was ever in,” said Mr. 
Fyler, “was one time in January off Montauk. 
A fishing sloop had been off South Side 
after cod. It came up quite heavy out of the 
sou’west, so they came around the point and 
anchored in Oyster Pond Bay. In the night the 
wind shifted to the northwest and blew a gale. 
Their anchors dragged, taking them out to sea. 
They had to dismast her and by morning she 
was iced down until you could scarcely tell what 
she was. Tnere was a grandfather, his son and 
grandson aboard; two of the crew of six were 
over eighty. Without fire or food they were 
in a bad fix. We went out for them in the life 
boat. It was below zero and blowing a gale. 
Everything the flying spray touched it froze. 
It was quite coarse.” 
We agreed it must have been. The cook told 
of his eleven years on the Pautuxet, of the bat¬ 
tles between the oyster dredgers and Govern¬ 
ment boats, and of the cruelties of the captains. 
“They were an awful tough lot,” he said. “They 
would go up to Baltimore and shanghai men, 
work ’em to death without half enough to eat, 
and at the end of the season shoot ’em and throw 
’em overboard. Once we found seven all tied 
together in a bunch that had been shot and 
thrown overboard. Another time three men 
came to us that_ had made their escape. They 
were nearly starved and almost naked, bare¬ 
footed in the driving snow. They had been 
nearly killed and received no pay. They are an 
awful tough lot.” 
Sometime in the night I was rudely awakened 
by being vigorously pawed about and held by 
the knees. “Who is it?” someone kept saying. 
My first thought was that I was in the wrong 
bed, the rightful owner of which was claiming 
his own. I hastily complied by telling my name. 
I then found it was Mr. Grimshaw, my bed 
fellow, who told me I was crossways of the bed. 
We certainly were at right angles to each other, 
but who had shifted his moorings? I felt of 
my pillow and found my handkerchief under it, 
so I knew I had not shifted. To convince him 
I got up and struck a match, which disclosed 
that Mr. Grimshaw was lying north and south in¬ 
stead of east and west, his legs sticking off the 
front of the bed like the cross timbers of a 
pergola. The bla’nkets, quilts and sheets were 
“milled” into a hopeless tangle like a small hay¬ 
stack. 
It was a beautiful morning off Green Hill, 
which is Eastern Plain Point of Gardiner’s 
Island. We were anchored in a small fleet of 
boats, all catching sea bass, skates, flounders, 
ling and porgies. I wished for my light rod and 
tackle in place of the heavy professional rig. 
All the people here being market fishermen, use 
such heavy tackle that all sport is taken away. 
Nothing but a ten-pound weakfish or five-pound 
blue has any chance to put up a fight. Fish are 
measured by bushels, hundred pounds or dollars’ 
worth. We soon had all the sea bass we wanted, 
up anchored and started back. It was a lovely 
BLUE MOUNTAIN TOWER. 
Photograph by Miss E. L. Garrison. 
October day; the run home and stop at Napeague 
for clams were much enjoyed. 
“Next year” I hope to revisit and explore 
all this wonderful country, camping for the night 
on shore and trolling my squid by day, getting 
my fill of the “silver blue.” 
The Tower on Blue Mountain. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
The accompanying photograph shows the ob¬ 
servation tower on the summit of Blue Moun¬ 
tain at Blue Mountain Lake in the Adirondacks. 
This tower was erected by private subscription 
through the leadership of Prof. J. M. Taylor, 
Ph.D., of Colgate University. The money was 
contributed by residents and visitors. M. Tyler 
Merwin had charge of the construction. The 
tower is about thirty-five feet in height and af¬ 
fords a magnificent view in all directions. 
During July the registration of visitors filled 
an ordinary bank pass book. The record showed 
visitors from many parts of the United States 
and several from Europe. In August the visita¬ 
tion was much larger. As many as 130 persons 
were known to ascend the mountain in one day. 
Juvenal. 
PURITY ESSENTIAL. 
In no other form of food is Purity so abso¬ 
lutely essential as in milk products. Rich¬ 
ness is also necessary, as without richness, 
milk is of little value as a food. Purity and 
richness are the embodiment of Borden’s 
Eagle Brand Condensed Milk. As a food for 
infants or for general household purposes it 
has no equal.-— Adv. 
An Appreciation. 
St. John’s, N. F., Nov. 20.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: The announcement in a recent issue 
of Forest and Stream of the death of Mr. 
Edmund F. L. Jenner must have come as a great 
surprise to many of your readers. 
Seeing his portrait and reading his most in¬ 
teresting articles, gave me the impression that 
he was a young vigorous man in the full prime 
of his mental and physical development, and the 
news of his death gave me a shock, as if I had 
lost a personal friend, although I never knew 
him except through his delightful articles in 
your columns. 
J * 
The charm of his* stories was irresistible. One 
felt as if he were listening to the various char¬ 
acters talking with their own personal peculiar¬ 
ities, so true and convincing was his method 
in dealing with the various subjects upon which 
he wrote such delightful essays. 
One of his _ stories that interested me most 
was styled "Jake Henshaw’s Midshipmites,” be¬ 
cause something very similar happened in St. 
John’s when the “midshipmites” came along in 
a British man-of-war. It is told of an old bum 
boatman, who was hobbling to and from the 
ship in the early hours of the morning. A royal 
prince, who is very near the throne of England 
to-day, was the midshipmite in question. The 
prince was due to land on the King’s Wharf with 
all due and proper ceremony at noon. 
Tom R., the old boatman, was hailed from 
the ship about 9 A. M. and a nice little middy 
got in hfs boat to be rowed ashore. Tom and 
himself had quite a chat, the middy asking Tom 
lots of questions and getting some original an¬ 
swers. At last Tom said to the middy: “What 
time is this young buccaloon coming ashore?” 
“Buccaloon !” says the middy; “who or what 
is the ‘Buccaloon?’” 
“Why, cousin, yonder,” said Tom nodding his 
head over his shoulders toward the warship. 
“Whom do you mean?” said the middy. 
“Who should I mean,” said Tom, “but him¬ 
self, but His Nibs, the Prince, to be sure.” 
“Oh!” said the middy, “I am the Prince.” 
It is said that Tom took to the tall timber 
till the ship left port and now when the boys 
want to start him they inquire, “When is the 
buccaloon coming ashore?” 
I had intended sending the yarn to Mr. Jen¬ 
ner and ask him to dress it up in his own inimi¬ 
table style, so you can imagine my surprise when 
I read of his death. 
There is another writer who is still with us, 
and if it be permissible, I would like to say a 
word about his writings. I refer to Mr. Davis 
and his tales of the sea. They interest me 
greatly and ring true and genuine like Mr. Jen- 
ner’s stories and like the tales of the “Lodges 
of the Blackfeet.” These among others occur 
to me as stories that are told simply and directly 
by men who- have seen and felt what they de- j 
scribe with a simplicity and charm that no art j 
could equal. 
When I get my copy of Forest and Stream 
I scan its columns in quest of certain names, and [ 
Mr. Davis’s stories are among the very first I 
read. Perhaps it is because we live down here 
by the sea that they find a responsive echo; any¬ 
how they possess a charm of their own and I 
would like to “testify” to the fact while Mr. j 
Davis is still in the flesh. W. J. Carroll. 1 
