December, 1917 
595 
FOREST AND STREAM 
turned sharply to the right and headed 
south down “Squan Beach.” 
Y OU of the present day, who skim in 
your automobiles over the well grav¬ 
eled avenue, straight as the arrow 
flies, from Bay Head to Sea Side Park, 
can have little conception of the road down 
the beach fifty years ago. It wound in 
and out, between the bay and the sand 
hills; sometimes the wagon would go wal¬ 
lowing through the coarse sand, again hub 
deep in mud and water. A wild, dreary, 
desolate waste it was, with only three 
houses in all the fifteen miles to the pres¬ 
ent town of Sea Side Park; but with all 
its loneliness it held a peculiar charm for 
me, and I eagerly absorbed every detail of 
the journey. Here the wagon would cross 
a “draw,” where the sea had broken 
through the sand hills, and carried thou¬ 
sands of tons of sand into the bay, form¬ 
ing a “bar.” From these from time to 
time, a belated winter yellowleg would 
take flight, with his plaintive mellow 
whistle; again from some “slew” close 
to the road, would spring a black duck, 
with loud quacks of alarm ; or on some 
distant bar would stand like a sentinel, 
a lonely blue heron. Occasionally a bit¬ 
tern or “Quock” would startle us by 
his harsh croak, as he sprang from the 
rushes near the road, and flew away 
with awkward dangling legs; or on 
spread wings, the meadow larks would 
sail from the wagon on either side. 
So we made our way slowly down the 
beach. The tide was out, and we could 
get only an occasional glimpse of the 
sea, with great flocks of gulls whirling 
over the breakers; but on our right 
hand the Bay of Barnegat lay in all its 
beauty. From time to time, as we pro¬ 
gressed, father or Uncle William would 
call my attention to waving lines of 
wild fowl in the distance, and once a 
flock of geese, flying very low, crossed 
the road from beach to bay in front of 
the wagon, evidently fresh arrivals from 
their long pilgrimage out of the north. 
After a long interval, we passed a 
low sloping roofed building, with a 
broad porch on the south and west 
sides. On the porch stood a small stoop 
shouldered man, with a fringe of griz¬ 
zled whiskers, and rings of gold in his 
ears. He waved his hand to father, who 
said to me, “That is Uncle Jakey Herbert.” 
I came to know him well in later years. 
S LOWLY the miles passed, and then 
we came to the second house on the 
beach, “Captain Bill” Chadwick’s. As 
we passed some distance to the east, Uncle 
William remarked, “There must be some 
shooting, Henry, for I see a nice bunch of 
birds hanging under the north porch.” In 
a few minutes we came out between two 
lofty sand hills directly on the beach. 
Here I had my first full view of the ocean. 
What pen can describe the emotions that 
passed, through my boyish mind, as my 
eyes beheld that vast expanse of rolling, 
troubled waters, that mysterious sea of 
which I had read and dreamed so much! 
A feeling of awe passed over me, and my 
heart seemed to rise in my throat. From 
where we struck the beach, extending 
south for many miles, at some remote pe¬ 
riod, had been a “bight” or indenture in 
the shore line, and the desolate sand dunes 
formed a gentle curve or bow. Some con¬ 
vulsion of nature, or change of current 
had caused the sea to recede, till at this 
time the surf was at least a quarter of a 
mile from the sand hills proper. This 
wide waste of sand was bare of vegetation 
excepting here and there a wisp of beach 
grass, and at storm tides the waves came 
across the flats to dash against the ancient 
sand hills. (As time passed, the action of 
wind and tide filled in this great expanse, 
until at this writing in 1917 a luxuriant 
growth of bayberry brush covers the whole 
area, and new dunes are forming beside 
the surf). As we passed on our way, we 
saw from time to time grim evidences of 
ocean tragedies—here a weather beaten 
stick of timber protruding from a mound 
of sand, there a section of some vessel’s 
bow, again a keel with knees still attached, 
looking like the backbone and ribs of some 
stranded leviathan. In five miles of beach 
I counted twenty-eight wrecks, or portions 
of wrecks, grisly reminders of the perils 
of the sea. At last just at sunset, we 
turned from the beach toward the bay 
again, and as we passed through the hills, 
father pointed his whip and said, “Neil, 
there is Ortleys, the end of our journey.” 
I saw before me a weather beaten house 
of moderate proportions, surrounded by a 
grove of large willow trees, and two large 
silver maples at the southwest corner, with 
a small group of outbuildings, and a small 
barn a few paces to the south. A column 
of smoke was rising from the north chim¬ 
ney, and altogether, from a distance, it had 
a comfortable look. Little did I think that 
this place was to become for me a “Mecca,” 
and that I would make annual pilgrimages 
to burn incense at this homely shrine for 
over half a century. 
As father stopped the team before the 
house, a door opened and a heartv voice 
cried. “Hello, Henry,” “Hello, William,” 
“I seen ye cornin’, so I started a fire; who’s 
this you got with ye?” “Why, this is my 
boy Neil. Neil, this is Michael Ortley,” and 
I shook hands with a man, who there be¬ 
came my friend for many a long year. 
Michael Ortley, or “Mike” Ortley, as every 
one called him, was quite a character, a 
short legged, stocky man, about thirty-five 
years of age, not much over five feet tall, 
with a fringe of brown whiskers and curly 
brown hair, and a pair of honest, shrewd, 
gray eyes, that looked you fairly in the 
face from under a heavy thatch of eye¬ 
brows. Mike always smoked a pipe ex¬ 
cept when eating or sleeping, and never 
under any circumstances did today what he 
could put off until tomorrow. 
As Mike and I followed the wagon to¬ 
ward the barn, the air was filled with loud 
“honkings,” and I cried, “Mr. Ortley, look 
at the geese.” From toward the landing 
came waddling a flock of perhaps forty 
wild geese. “Yep,” said Mike, “them’s 
Mammy’s; we ketched a few wing 
tipped ones, and raised all them from 
’em. They’re tame now.” 
T HE tired horses were unhitched, 
well rubbed down and bedded and 
we returned to the house, where 
Mike ushered us in to a large room, 
with no furniture excepting a few 
wooden chairs and a pine table. The 
floor was bare and in the northern wall 
of the room was an enormous fireplace, 
piled high with blazing wreck timber, 
whose genial glow was appreciated after 
our long ride down the beach. 
Presently we sat down to supper, and 
I was introduced to “Mammy” Ortley, 
then a bent and withered woman of 
some seventy years, and “Liddy,” her 
lame daughter, and “Jacob,” her other 
son at home. Jacob Ortley was a timid, 
retiring man, who was constantly seek¬ 
ing knowledge, and read with eagerness 
all books that came his way. In later 
years, I was able in a small way to aid 
him in his efforts. After supper we 
gathered in a half circle in front of the 
fire, and presently a tall stoop shoul¬ 
dered man, with a long brown beard, 
came in, accompanied by two lads about 
my own age. This was Bill Miller and 
his boys, Charlie and Ed. Miller was a 
son-in-law of Mrs. Ortley, and with his 
wife and numerous family, occupied the 
south end of the house. Lie afterward be¬ 
came captain of Toms River Life Saving 
Station, which position he retained until 
he was retired on pension. Miller was at 
this time a market shooter, and was be¬ 
lieved to be the best shot on Barnegat Bay. 
His boys and I became great friends, and 
shot together for many years. In later 
years Captain Bill would often say he could 
tell on what point Neil was shooting, be¬ 
cause he always shot his second barrel 
first,” referring to my well known quick¬ 
ness with my second barrel. 
That glorious fire of wreck timber, I can 
see it yet. In olden times, ships were 
joined together with copper bolts, and when 
the fire would strike a place where a bolt 
had been, the flames would burn in gor¬ 
geous changing colors', green, blue, yellow, 
brown, etc. I never tired of watching 
their wonderful iridescent tints. 
I had noticed an old battered “fiddle” 
(continued on page 626) 
