Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

and relishing such comfort snatched from its very teeth. But when dinner-time came, and the water-keg was empty, and the oil was gone, I also began to think the situation mournful; so I put on my rubber coat and went to seek supplies.

I soon knocked at the door of an old house. It was plain and low, without eaves; but its old front had a deep piazza, with two small windows, like sunken eyes, that twinkled with hospitable welcome. The original shingles-I believe two hundred years old-still cover the sides, though the ends of them have been eaten away and rounded by the north-easters. Touches of

wet, the flowers dripped, and the hangingbaskets whirled in the gusts of cold wind; and away over the Sound the north-easter was still lashing the sea, and filling the sky with gloom. I was very glad when, at last, the lady opened the door, and kindly asked me to come in from the storm. A fire crackled on the hearth, and glowed here and there on quaint old furniture. When my story was told, I was abundantly supplied, and I soon returned to the beach. I confess the storm was not any more welcome after this taste of domestic life; and even the Allegro seemed a shade more lonely than I had ever seen her. As I

[graphic][ocr errors][merged small]

A

taste brightened the plain old house. hammock swung under the piazza, and a stand and hanging-baskets were bright with flowers. The view, as I turned from the door toward the beach, seemed very appropriate. The lawn was a whole field of grass, stretching to the edge of the bluff, where an irregular hedge of trees partly shut in the scene; the sound was visible farther to the left, beyond a salt meadow and a smooth beach; near the house, a large black walnut, an old orchard of appletrees, and some flowering shrubs completed the expression of simple, comfortable, and tasteful living. But the scene now was not inviting, for the hammock was lank and

bent over my wet sticks under the shelter of a rock, and tried to start a fire, I thought this effete civilization that lives under a roof was not beyond admiration. Just then I heard steps on the sand, and presently a large, good-natured face, with a heavy beard all beaded with rain-drops, peered over the bowlder beside me, and smiled at what it beheld.

My visitor looked at the canoe with interest, while chatting for a few minutes; and then explained that he lived in the old house, that his wife had told him of my situation, and that he had come to pilot me to a better harbor. Such kindness was not to be resisted. I was soon back in

the old house again, at a social table, where the graces of hospitality met an appreciation that must have delighted the old house. Such homesteads are not uncommon on Long Island. I frequently met them along the shores, looking out of their gnarled orchards or through their veil of willows. They have descended from father to son for several generations; and many of them, being grants from the Indians, are held without a recorded deed, or even a mortgage, or any other official seal of ownership. Many of the owners are Friends; and many others besides these have preserved in the homesteads the quaint simplicity of old

uresque details of this exquisite landscape. The attractive village of Roslyn is nestled at the foot of the hills about the head of the bay, among ponds and old mills, and threaded by shady streets. The old Bogart homestead, near the lowest pond, was honored by a visit from President Washington; it was also robbed by the whale-boat men, of whom I shall speak further on. The top of Harbor Hill gives a remarkably fine view over the village, the pretty bay, the rolling hills covered with groves and villas, and, farther away, of the Sound, the Connecticut shore, and even of the Palisades, New York City, and the mount

[graphic][merged small]

times. Such examples can be found in Hempstead, Jamaica, and many other of the old towns in the interior of the island.

Hempstead Harbor is one of the prettiest bays of the north shore. It is, like the others, a long, narrow strip of clear water, running far inland between rolling hills, bluffs, and meadows. Some of the knolls are crowned with modern villas; and the spirit of improvement has invaded the quaintness of Long Island here more than on any other of the bays. But you still find all the charms of the scenery in the rare harmony of the sweeping lines along the shores and hills, and in the many pict

ains of New Jersey. The former home of the poet Bryant, north of the village, is a delightful place on the shore of the bay that will attract every one who cherishes his memory.

When I stood in for Cold Spring Harbor, the afternoon was full of sunshine, and the frolicking waves tossed their white-caps at us. A stiff, south-west breeze meeting a flood tide kicked up an ugly sea on the bar. The sail-boats had all run into port, and I was alone on the water. The short, sharp seas swept my boat now and then from stem to stern, and I was soon drenched. But what did it matter in a July sun? The run up

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small]
[graphic][merged small]

two, a white village among trees, and the hulk of a dismantled steamer.

As I drifted along these shores, I often leaned over the side of the canoe and watched the world under the water. The rocks covered with sea-weed were swarming cities of life; as I ran my fingers into the weeds, little fishes darted out in a fright and escaped to deeper water. On the shallow bars little shell-fish-crabs, shrimps, and lobster-like beginnings of great sedateness -crept about, all eagerly bent on feeding. The blue mussel clung to his rock, while the belated clam traveled apace to his next bed. The jelly-fish floated along with the current, yet propelled itself to some extent by expanding and contracting its umbrellalike body. It is beautifully decorated with long, curly ribbons of silvery luster, that float after it with the lightness of a feather. Its soft, pulpy body, shapeless when cast upon the beach, is perfectly symmetrical and rich in the evening light with motherof-pearl tints, here and there touched with a spot of crimson or a faint line of gold.

Among my many companions, none were happier than the porpoises. They come into the bays with the flood tide, and play in schools close to the shore. They often staid so near the surface that I saw many of their motions. They go slowly along, with an ease and confidence that make me ashamed as a waterman. Now and then

WHALE-BOAT MEN.

they break into the reflections on the smooth water by raising their round, shining backs above the surface. I wonder if they enjoy any reflections in their nether world. At times they collect in the smallest possible space, and glide over and under one another as if in a heap. Now one raises half of his body above the water and falls on top of all; another comes up, turns right down again, and raises his broad tail for a playful slap as he goes under. One of them, one day, left his companions and went on a solitary cruise about the cove; when something startled him he struck a bee-line for the school, although it had moved many yards, and went with a speed you can seldom see in the water. He swam near the surface, and made a swell so large that it rocked the canoe and broke on the beach. Just as he reached the school, he jumped clear out of the water and dived into their midst with such accurate direction and easy entrance that you could not have heard the water splash. So they go and come with perfect content, for with them every tide is "taken at the flood" and "leads on to fortune."

The menhaden was another frequent companion on the cruise. I often saw a school in my course, and ran the Allegro's nose right among them before they discovered her silent approach. Several hundred often swim as close together as they

can lie, just at the top of the water. You see, in still weather, a small ripple on the water that you might think the effect of a puff of wind. On coming closer you see it is a mass of fish, with their heads, eyes, and backs just above water, and their dorsal fins wagging loosely as they scull along. They glide idly along the surface, with a faint, rippling sound, while their silvery sides gleam in the dark blue water with remarkable luster. As you sit studying them they all at once take fright, flap their tails on the water, and dive into the depths. A large school will thus make a splash heard several hundred yards. I followed them all through the twilight, while the ruddy light flashed from their sides with iridescent splendors. Then, as the night came on, I met them again here and there, and listened to their play among the ripples and the moonbeams. Still later, the waves kindled with phosphorescent luster, and I seemed to float on a sea of light, beneath the starry heavens.

Oyster Bay is a pleasant village, scattered among orchards and small fields along the shore. The place scarcely shows its age, which dates from 1653; and yet the peace and serenity of old age are the leading spirit of its rural charms. One of the old houses, the Townsend homestead, was the headquarters of Colonel Simcoe, commander of

the Queen's Rangers. Miss Sallie Townsend was a great favorite with the British officers who visited Colonel Simcoe. Among these was Major André. On one occasion he showed his playful and gallant spirit by slipping into the dining-room and hiding the tea-biscuit; and he once made, on the sly, a sketch of Miss Sallie, and put it under her plate. But the young lady was too much incensed at this British compliment to eat her supper. The Young homestead, at the Cove, is another relic of those times. Washington passed a night there on his excursion through Long Island in April, 1790.

His

The Presidential tour of our first President was a different affair from our present official excursions, with palace-cars and speeches. Washington rode in his coach, drawn by four grays, with outriders, and was attended by his suite of officers. route was from Brooklyn along the south side to Patchogue, across to Smithtown, and back along the north shore by Oyster Bay, Hempstead Harbor, and Flushing. The old people used to tell many pleasant anecdotes of him on this trip. He dined at Z. Ketcham's, at Huntington South, now Babylon, and begged the landlord to take no trouble about his fare. The people of those days were respectful, even if curious. They collected about the inn and expressed

[graphic][merged small]
« AnkstesnisTęsti »