370 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March ii, 1911- 
East Hampton and bicycle rides through the 
woods, dreaming by the open fires, the time to 
start back came all too soon. 
At 2 o’clock of an October afternoon, when 
the sunlight brooded on the purple hills, we 
said good-bye and pulled away down the harbor 
and across Gardiner’s Bay toward the dim Orient 
Point Light that seemed to swim in the haze 
far to the northward. Flocks of coots streaked 
away over the glassy water, oyster boats dredged, 
the motor hummed us on and on. Out over the 
sound we could see the Connecticut shore and 
the two white light houses at the mouth of the 
Connecticut River. Brown-skinned porpoises, 
oily and heavy-breathed, rolled through the green 
water; tugs with coal barges and lazy four- 
masters kept us company. As the sun dipped 
into the sound in the resplendent west, the full 
moon came up behind us. The lighthouses on 
all sides began to flash their lights, the dull red 
glow of Orient Point, the intense white flash 
of Plum Island Light, the curiously timed double 
flash of Cornfield Point Lightship, the spots of 
light at the Saybrook house, and so on. The 
strong flood tide, meeting the zephyr from the 
west, sent a bouncing roll through which the 
Wance plunged gayly. Just as night had be¬ 
come fixed and all the waters were silvered 
with the flooding moonlight, we rounded Duck 
Island breakwater and anchored near a lobster 
car on one side, and a schooner on the other. 
After a delightful supper of escallops and cun- 
ners, and an interesting visit to the lightkeeper 
on the little boulder-strewn island, we turned in. 
At 4 o’clock I was awakened by the rattle of 
the hoisting of sails on the schooner near us 
and got up. It was like day and a gentle breeze 
from the north, so awakening Louis, who was 
returning with us instead of Mr. D., we raised 
the anchor and slipped away through the elusive, 
enchanting moonlight, drifting effortlessly into 
the west, leaving the dark shore behind, swept 
along by the rushing flood. Again the conditions 
of the evening before were repeated in reverse 
order. The silver moon swimming down into 
the horizon haze seemed to lift the sun in the 
east. The light on Faulkner’s Island was still 
flashing as we passed, the long rays of the morn¬ 
ing sun just stealing over the water. At break¬ 
fast time we were passing the indescribably 
lovely Thimble Islands. The great gray rocks, 
crowned with shrubbery of gold and purple and 
carpeted with green, were set in a chrome green 
sea. The low gray cottages and the lobster pot 
buoys gave the human touch. 
All day we hummed on down the Connecticut 
shore, passing the busy fleet-—like a cloud of 
white butterflies — dredging for oysters off 
Bridgeport. Immense flocks of coots tore them¬ 
selves out of the water and went driving away 
to new bedding places. A very few, I regret 
to say, trusted us too well and were pitched 
back into the green water with charges of No. 
5 shot. The escalloping net quickly dipped them 
up. Some of them were great handsome birds. 
Glossy black with white wings, white iris and 
red-capped bills, they were prizes. When, how¬ 
ever, after almost ruining my thumb in picking 
them, and after parboiling with an armful of 
celery for six hours, they were still rank and 
fishy, my conscience felt better. The good eat¬ 
ing ducks are not to be approached by a boat, 
and this seems a working principle in nature. 
The wild ducks are toothsome and the tame ones 
are fishy in direct ratio. Are the wild ones wild 
because toothsome, or does the wildness make 
them edible? 
It being part of our plan to visit strange ports, 
we selected Portchester for the sacrifice. The 
wind had worked around to the south, so I 
headed in past Great Captain’s Island, studying 
out the course on the chart. Rocks, rocks every¬ 
where, big and little, like a drove of cattle com¬ 
ing down to the water, some on shore, some knee 
deep, others almost submerged. The shore was 
crowned with woods in autumn dress and many 
handsome cottages. We found the harbor de¬ 
lightfully quiet with the Byram River leading 
up through the rocks on one side and a gutway 
going into another harbor opposite. The tide 
was low and the escallopers were out, eagerly 
scanning the bottom for their prey. They were 
an entirely different looking lot of men from 
those at Three-Mile Plarbor. The escallops, too, 
looked dingy and mean. One old fellow in¬ 
formed me that a man got nearly a bushel the 
day before, “and I don’t see how he did it,” he 
added. When I told him that at Three-Mile 
LTarbor I could get a bushel in twenty minutes, 
he looked surprised. Since he had never even 
heard of Plum Gut, Gardiner’s Bay, or the Con¬ 
necticut River, I could not tell him where Three- 
Mile Harbor was. I should have asked him if 
he had ever heard of Long Island Sound or New 
York city. 
After moonlight sails in the tender about the 
harbor, enjoying the great black rocks and silent 
autumn evening, we had a restful night, waking 
up to find the world securely wrapped in fog. 
Even the breakwater, but a few feet away, was 
invisible. Only the hoarse bellow of the trum¬ 
pet on Great Captain’s Island told us where we 
were. Our luck had turned, seeking revenge 
for the march we had stolen on her the morn¬ 
ing before, getting the tide from Duck Island 
at 4:30 in the morning. At 12:30 the fog let 
A Canadian 
By S. A. 
T HE old-fashioned method of harvesting 
the ice from the lake or river is passing. 
Mechanical devices have been constructed 
with an ingenuity almost excluding the manual 
touch, which was before so necessary, yet, in 
spits of these, on various bodies of water through¬ 
out this Province (Ontario) and others one 
may see a band of workers still gathering the 
crystallized spoil for its hoarding till the blaz¬ 
ing summer comes, when in the sweltering cities 
the ice-block is almost worth its weight in coin 
in the comfort it provides. 
If the morning is mild, the harvesters pass 
out to their toil with merry jest or song, all 
outer clothing thrown aside; but when the bitter 
northeaster comes skirling down the ice plain 
at a forty-mile clip, perhaps sifting stinging 
blasts of snow in its course, the dim dawn is 
anything but inviting. With fur caps jammed 
down and reefers buttoned up, they file out in 
silence, and set to work like Trojans, the rush- 
us sally forth. We now had lost all our tides, 
and instead of having the flood to Fort Schuyler, 
the ebb to Spuyten Duyvil and the flood up the 
Hudson, we had the tides so strongly against us 
that we only got to Port Morris at 4:30. 
We were sorry to leave the clean, free sound 
behind us and have the big city to pass. 
In a pouring rain we saw a big steamer break 
down in Hell Gate next morning. There was 
mad blowing of whistles, rushing about and 
throwing of the anchor. We could hear the 
anchor grate over the rocky bottom. Presently 
a tug came to their help. Even though it is a 
fine sight to watch the fleet of Sound steamers, 
vast towering masses of light go parading past, 
and to see the back door of a great city with 
all its activities by way of contrast, we were 
glad to turn into the Hudson and leave it all 
behind. Once more the Palisades frowned down 
on us, and the great river, like a long inland 
lake, stretched away to the north and home. 
All one needs to navigate the Hudson is a pair 
of eyes and an enjoyment of steamer swells. 
The sun came out, we dried our wet clothes 
and watched the great flocks of black mallards 
flash the silver lining of their wings at us in 
derision. They were the wild kind. Tugboats, 
whose names were familiar to me, passed with 
tows, and sailboats, reflecting their canvas in the 
glassy water, drifted with the tide. The sun 
went down, streaking its beams of light over 
the shadowed mountains above Nyack. Feeling 
sure of a wind from the north, I ran on and on 
until we found a secure anchorage in Green’s 
Cove, under Verplanck’s Point. In the night the 
cold wind came pouring out of the north. It 
could not reach us, though the next forenoon it 
fought us savagely nearly all the way home. 
The brown waters and slaty beaches of the Hud¬ 
son always sadden me, somehow. I miss the 
clear green and the lonely sand beaches of the 
land of porpoises and escallops. 
Ice Harvest 
WHITE 
ing blood under their laboring muscles fighting 
with the cold and barring it out. 
Should there be snow on the lake, it is cleared 
by a ponderous scraper, drawn by a team or 
several teams, according to the size of the 
scraper. Then, an opening having been made, 
the plow is set in motion. This is an iron 
plow frame made for the purpose, and set with 
broad vertical blades, which resemble giant saw- 
teeth. Sometimes a single row of these blades 
suffices, but often a double or even a triple row 
is used. A well-broken horse draws the con¬ 
trivance. One man guides the plow while an¬ 
other rides the horse, and keeps it in its proper 
place. If there is a squat Englishman in the 
“gang,” he will probably be found on the 
blanketed back of the old horse. Whether from 
innate laziness or love of superior elevation, it 
is hard to say, but there he sits, clad in a flar¬ 
ing green sweater, puffing at a short clay pipe 
to keep his nose from freezing, and drawling 
