{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_69718/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_69718","id":"gutenberg_69718","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69718","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folklore -- Massachusetts","Massachusetts -- Social life and customs"],"text":"TALL TALES\n\n  OF\n\n  CAPE COD\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: _It Pays to Keep the Sabbath Day_]\n\n\n\n\n  TALL TALES\n  OF CAPE COD\n\n  _by_\n  MARILLIS BITTINGER\n\n  _With Illustrations by_\n  BRUCE ADAMS\n\n  THE MEMORIAL PRESS\n  PLYMOUTH    \u00b7    MASSACHUSETTS\n  1948\n\n\n\n\n  TALL TALES OF CAPE COD\n  COPYRIGHT, 1948, BY\n  THE MEMORIAL PRESS\n\n  _All rights in this book are reserved._\n\n  _Designed and Printed by_\n\n  THE MEMORIAL PRESS\n  PLYMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS\n\n\n\n\nTO MY FATHER, _who Mother says tells the tallest tales of them all, and\nwho helped me in the preparation of this book_.\n\n\n\n\n  ... Introduction\n\nThere is not a part of the United States that does not have its share\nof fascinating folklore. From the coast of California and its legends\nof gold, to the hardy New England shores, rich with its stories of\nshrewd Yankee peddlers, personalities and fables march back from the\npast and implant themselves into the region as firmly and lastingly as\nthe giant redwoods of California or the huge elm-arches of Yarmouth on\nCape Cod. An integral part of sectionalized history, American folklore\nholds its own as a meter by which we may judge and understand those\nhardy men and women who took the new world in their hands and molded\nits character for the generations to come.\n\nThe title of this volume is perhaps misleading. Tall Tales of Cape Cod\nthey are, yes, but in a broader sense that are the feel and the basis\nof a way of life. These fables and superstitions, personalities and\nadventures cannot be labeled merely Tall Tales, for they were such an\nimportant part of life on Cape Cod that to think of the narrow land\nwithout them would be impossible.\n\nThe stories I have presented here are, in a sense, true. Some of them\nare original, that is, products of my own imagination, fired by the\nCape and its history. Others are as old as the Cape itself, and have\nbeen repeated time and again. Still others have been gleaned from\nconversation with Cape Cod folk and from the invaluable old books which\nI have been fortunate enough to have made available to me.\n\nIt would be impossible for me to state the credulity of the tales found\nin this volume, that is a matter entirely for the reader to decide. But\nthis is Cape Cod, with its adventure and romance, mystery and humour,\nand I hope that the reader will find in them the true feel of a land\nthat is incomparable in history, salty humour, and rock bound tradition.\n\n                                                      MARILLIS BITTINGER\n\n  Plymouth, Massachusetts\n  April 1, 1948\n\n\n\n\n  ... Contents\n\n\n  No Kissing On Sunday                           1\n\n  The Cape Cod Gold Rush                         3\n\n  How Scargo Lake Got Its Name                   7\n\n  The Curse of Old Mother Melt                   9\n\n  Barney Gould                                  12\n\n  It Pays to Keep the Sabbath                   15\n\n  Timmy Drew and The Bull Frogs                 17\n\n  The Wrong Gulls                               28\n\n  She Had the Last Word                         30\n\n  The Singular Case of the Young Anatomist      31\n\n  The Mooncussers of Cape Cod                   38\n\n  How the Fogs Came to the Cape                 40\n\n  The Peddler\u2019s Coffin                          45\n\n  The Whale that Went to New York               48\n\n  The Snake Biting Indian                       50\n\n  Johnny Blunt\u2019s Courtship                      53\n\n  The Trusting Maiden                           58\n\n  Shipwrecked                                   60\n\n  The Enchanted Mouse                           65\n\n  Ole Bill Hardy                                68\n\n  How Sophie Got A Husband                      71\n\n  The Orleans Lamplighter                       76\n\n  The Giant of Longnook Valley                  77\n\n  Cupid and the Tree Warden                     82\n\n  The Singing Fish of Monomoy Point             85\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... No Kissing On Sunday\n\n\nIt isn\u2019t unusual during the light-hearted days of Spring, or during any\nseason for that matter, to see a boy and girl exchange a kiss. But back\nin the days when a kiss between any but married couples was a gross\nimpropriety, any demonstration of affection on the Sabbath was against\nthe law, even between married couples. There is no attempt to claim\nhere that this law was never broken, but woe unto those hapless couples\nwho were found out!\n\nA Harwich great-great-great-ancestor, a red blooded sailing man, had\nbeen away on a long sea journey, and returned unexpectedly on one\nSabbath afternoon. He strode down the street to his home, and at the\ngate, bellowed joyously for his wife. She rushed out the door and into\nhis arms, and the captain\u2019s natural inclination was of course to greet\nhis wife with a hug and a kiss. They both, in the moment of meeting,\nquite forgot the law which forbade any such goings on. A prying\nneighbor--a frustrated old maid, no doubt--reported the incident to\nthe authorities, with the result that the affectionate captain was\nclapped into the stocks for two days to repent.\n\nNot less than a month after this romance thwarting incident, another\ncouple was hauled into court. It would seem from this story that it was\nnot god-fearing folks who gathered garden fresh peas on the Sabbath.\nThe husband had returned from the sea Sunday morning, and his loving\nwife, knowing that fresh peas were his favorite vegetable, had gone\ninto her garden and gathered an apron-full for dinner. It is not known\nwhat punishment was levied on the couple, but it is recorded in the\nfamily records that \u201cthey received their just punishment with god-like\nmien.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Cape Cod Gold Rush\n\n\nThe lights in the cell block of the Charlestown State Prison shone\nforth in musty yellow streaks one mid-summer night in 1849. It was the\nhour when the prisoners were left to their own devices within their\ntiny cells before the final night lock-up.\n\nThe final lock-up bell clanged through the stone prison, the main\nlever was thrown, and the block was dark save for two lanterns at the\nend of the long corridor. The men settled down to sleep. But in the\ncorner cell of Section 3, 2nd floor, there was no thought of sleep.\nThe occupant of this cell was William Phelpes, sentenced to a long\nterm after confessing to a startling $50,000 bank robbery at Wheeling.\nThe loot had never been found, and it had taken authorities a long\ntime to catch up with Phelpes. But it was not thoughts of reclaiming\nthe fortune upon being released from prison that kept Phelpes awake\nthis night. He had no intention of waiting ten long years to return\nto the outside world, and tonight he was planning a way to beat this\nwaiting. His was not a plan of violence or a foolhardy attempt at\nescape. Phelpes was not unintelligent, and although he had little\nformal education, he was nevertheless known to be shrewd, cagey, and\nquick-witted.\n\nPhelpes waited until the prison was completely quiet and he could hear\nonly the steady breathing from the cell next to his, and an occasional\nmurmur from the lips of some uneasy sleeper. Then he sprang into\naction. He took his tin drinking cup in his hand, and rattled it across\nthe bars of his cell, hollering loudly for the guard. The lights in the\ncorridor lit up, and the guards came running down to his cell, where\nPhelpes demanded to see the warden, saying that he wished to tell of\nthe whereabouts of the $50,000.\n\nWhen the warden stumbled sleepy and red eyed from his room, his\nannoyance about being awakened was amazingly short-lived when he\nlearned the reason. It was decided that the search for the loot was to\nstart early the next morning. Phelpes had promised, under guarantee\nof a lightened sentence, to lead the warden and his assistants to the\nvery spot in which he had hidden the $50,000. The buried treasure, said\nPhelpes, was at Cotuit on Cape Cod.\n\nThere were two men that did not sleep in the prison that night, for\ntheir heads were whirling with plans. These men were Warden Robinson\nand Prisoner Phelpes. A golden cloud of money and freedom from the\njob of warden filled the mind of Warden Robinson, for his share of the\nreward promised for the return of the money would make it possible for\nhim to retire and live pretty much as he chose. For Phelpes, the golden\ncloud meant only one thing--freedom, and already his mercurial thoughts\nwere sliding from one fabulous plan to another--plans that could only\nbe fulfilled by this freedom.\n\nAt 5 o\u2019clock the next morning, Phelpes, Warden Robinson and the sheriff\nstarted out for Cape Cod and the $50,000. Phelpes, after the trio\nhad arrived at Cotuit, and the general vicinity of the buried loot,\npulled out a map, which he had carefully prepared the night before,\nand studied it intently. Elaborate steps were taken to follow the map\nto the letter. Warden Robinson\u2019s hands shook as he held the map in his\nhands, and even the calm Phelpes seemed ruffled and excited.\n\nThe exact spot was finally found, and the digging began--digging that\nwent on and on for what seemed like endless hours. It grew darker\nas evening began to turn into night when Phelpes sprang to his feet\nand shouted \u201cWe\u2019s almost there!\u201d Shovels tossed dirt furiously, and\nthe exhilarated sheriff leaped into the hole for a closer look. The\nwarden\u2019s face, illuminated by the lantern which he held, was a mask of\nsuppressed desire, and his eyes were holes of excitement and longing.\nHe had no thought of anything but the money which lay so close within\nhis grasp. But it was at this moment that Phelpes, forgotten both by\nthe warden and the sheriff in this instant of near-wealth, put his\ningenious plan into culminating action. As the warden leaned still\ncloser into the hole where the sheriff was still frantically digging\nPhelpes lifted his foot and booted the gullible warden into the hole\non top of the sheriff. In the confusion that inevitably followed,\nPhelpes made a successful dash for freedom, and later made his way to\nthe true spot where the $50,000 was hidden.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... How Scargo Lake\n      Got Its Name\n\n\nThe handsome, stalwart young brave runner from a distant tribe looked\njust once at the proud and fiery Princess Scargo, beautiful daughter\nof Sagem, chief of the Bobusset tribe that once dwelt on the shore of\nDennis, and lost his heart to her. And the Princess, who had given her\nheart to no man before, fell madly in love.\n\nAs token of his love and devotion, the young brave presented his\nbeloved with a beautifully carved, hollowed-out pumpkin, filled with\nwater in which were swimming four small silvery fish. The Princess\nadored her gift, and placed the small fish in a tiny pond which she\nhollowed out with her own hands. The beautiful Indian maiden spent long\nhours by her pond, for her lover had promised to return to her before\nthe fish had grown to maturity. And so every day she watched the growth\nof her fish, for each change in size brought her closer to the young\nbrave to whom she had pledged her love.\n\nBut the summer was a long and dry one, and when Princess Scargo went to\nher pond one morning, she found it dry and three of her beloved fish\ndead. The Princess was mad with grief. She wept and wailed, and the\ntears of grief kept alive the one remaining fish, which she placed once\nmore in the pumpkin.\n\nHer indulgent father immediately called an important pow-wow. It was\ndecided that a lake should be dug especially for Princess Scargo\u2019s\nfish. The strongest and most skillful brave shot an arrow in four\ndirections. Each time an arrow fell, it marked a boundary of the lake.\n\nThe work of digging the lake basin went on steadily. When Autumn\u2019s\nbright hues painted the countryside, and the Fall rains came, the lake\nbed filled deep and clear.\n\nPrincess Scargo placed her fish in the man-made lake, and prepared to\nwait once more for her lover. He came as he had promised, and after\ntheir marriage, they lived in their lodges on the shores of Scargo\nLake, where the descendants of the silvery fish, token of an Indian\nlove, still swim.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n  ... The Curse of\n      Old Mother Melt\n\n\nNo one knew her real name, or from where she came. She seemed as old\nas Time itself, and her cavernous eyes were fathomless pits of mystic\nwisdom. The villagers spoke of her in hushed tones, and they called her\nOld Mother Melt. They believed she was a witch.\n\nOld Mother Melt lived in an ancient, ragged cottage on the outskirts of\nProvincetown, and the townspeople dared not venture near her cottage\nafter dark. Many a youth, returning from an evening of courting in a\nneighboring town, and forced to pass by the cottage of Old Mother Melt\non his way home, was scared out of his breeches by the strange noises\nand eerie lights that came from the windows. This fear came from years\nof inbred superstition and ignorance, for Mother Melt had never done\nany harm that could be proven. Nevertheless, she remained an avoided,\nfearsome character. Whenever disaster, illness or calamity befell\nsomeone in the village, there were many who murmured ominously about\n\u201cone of Mother Melt\u2019s curses,\u201d and the threat that \u201cOld Mother Melt\nwill get you\u201d disciplined many an obstreperous child.\n\nWhenever Mother Melt made one of her infrequent trips to the village\nfor a few meagre staples, those on the streets slid quickly into\ndoorways and shops, children scampered to their calling mothers, and\nall peered suspiciously at the grotesque old figure of Mother Melt as\nshe picked her way slowly through the narrow streets.\n\nThe days of Old Mother Melt were the great days of fishing in\nProvincetown, and there was not a seaman in the village who would go\nnear her cottage the week before he was to sail. But there was one\nwhaling man, Capt. Samuel Collins, who scoffed at any mention of such\nthings as witchcraft and curses, and it was to this man that Mother\nMelt spoke one day. Her request was a simple one. She knew that Capt.\nCollins was to leave shortly for a long whaling trip, and she asked\nthat he take her son, a strong, intelligent lad of about fifteen, with\nhim on his trip as cabin boy and apprentice. Captain Collins had no\nqualms about accepting, for he knew and liked the boy, and had often\nbeen impressed by his quickness. So Mother Melt\u2019s dream of her boy off\nto sea, perhaps someday becoming master of his own ship, was realized.\n\nBut through some mix-up, when sailing time arrived, Mother Melt\u2019s son\nwas not to be found, and the captain could wait no longer for the\nboy. As the Collins\u2019 ship sailed away, Mother Melt was at the wharf\nshrieking a curse upon the ship and all its hands.\n\nSeveral weeks of steady winds and fair weather favored Captain\nCollins, but this run of good weather was shattered by a freak storm\nof sudden, fierce intensity. Monstrous waves and savage winds battered\nthe fishing ship. Several of the crew were washed overboard to their\ndeaths, and valuable time was lost in repairing the damage. Captain\nCollins recalled then the curse of Mother Melt, and declared that she\nwas responsible for the disaster, for he could see no other explanation\nfor the weird freak storm which had arisen so unexpectedly and caused\nso much damage. He swore to kill Mother Melt when he returned to home\nport.\n\nWhen the great fishing ship limped into Truro, Captain Collins wasted\nno time. He was the first to stride down the gangplank and made his\nway straight to the old cottage at the edge of Provincetown village.\nThere he found Mother Melt, weak and spent from a long illness. But\nnothing halted him or his anger. Mother Melt pleaded so passionately\nfor her life, however, that he gave up his determination for revenge\nand promised to spare her if she in turn promised to never again utter\na curse.\n\nUpon the death of Old Mother Melt, Captain Collins took her son under\nhis wing, and the lad later became master of his own ship, which had\na long and remarkable record of clear sailing, free from storms and\ndisasters. It is said that Mother Melt watched over the ship as it\nsailed the seven seas.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... Barney Gould\n\n\nI happened into the Orleans General Store one drizzly afternoon, and\nfound some old timers gathered round the potbellied stove, reminiscing\nabout days gone by, and some of the personalities that colored those\ndays. Perhaps the old cracker barrel, the wonderful, mixed smell of\nmolasses and spices, and the kerosene lanterns were missing, but, in\nthe midst of modern conveniences of a modern store, I travelled back\ninto the past as I listened to the talk that flowed around the circle\nby the stove. Rain streaked down the window panes; a little puddle of\nrain water at the doorway widened as a few stragglers came in out of\nthe storm, stamping their boots, and shaking off their slickers like\nducks just out of water. The moods of the weather have a wonderful\neffect on conversation in such a setting, and bring forth stories\nalmost forgotten, stories oft-repeated, and tall tales that grew and\ngrew with the years.\n\nSeth Finlay had a ghost of a smile on his wrinkled face, and a\nreminiscent twinkle in his deep-sea eyes. I heard him chuckle deep down\ninside, and felt somehow that a good yarn or two was forthcoming. Seth\ncaught me looking at him, and chuckled again. \u201c\u2019Spose you\u2019re wondering\nwhat I\u2019m lookin\u2019 so pleased about, don\u2019t you? Wal, I\u2019ll tell ye. All\nthese stories \u2019bout what you off-Capers would call \u2018characters\u2019 brings\nto mind old Barney Gould. I ain\u2019t sayin\u2019 all the stories you hear \u2019bout\nhim air true, but he was quite a feller. A mite bit tetched, mebbee,\nbut harmless.\n\n\u201cOne thing he was most set about. That was usin\u2019 trains or enythin\u2019\nelse besides the two legs that God gave him. He uster make regular\ntrips up Boston and back, carryin\u2019 packages and letters for folks.\n\u2019Twasn\u2019t long before we wuz callin\u2019 him \u2018Barney Gould\u2019s Express!\u2019 And\nI swan efen one day, when Ben Howes wanted a dozen wood-end tooth\nrakes, he gave Barney a quarter and the durn fool walked all the way to\nBoston, got the rakes, and hiked all the way back with the rakes over\nhis shoulder.\n\n\u201cNuther funny thing \u2019bout Barney. He\u2019d got the idee somewheres that he\nowned the roads. He\u2019d stop everybody he met and ask \u2019em for two cents\nfor his \u2018road tax.\u2019 I \u2019member one day he came up to me for the tax.\nAll\u2019s I had was a dime. He said that would pay my road tax for five\nyears. If he\u2019d lived fer that five years, he would\u2019ve waited \u2019til then\nto ask me again; he never forgot who had paid and who hadn\u2019t, and never\nhit up the same feller twice in the same year.\n\n\u201cYu\u2019ve heard tell about them long-distance walkers, I calculate. Wal,\nBarney was one of \u2019em. Least aways that\u2019s how the stories go. They tell\none story \u2019bout that\u2019s kinda hard t\u2019 believe. Seems that Cap\u2019n Joel\nNickerson was startin\u2019 off in his schooner for New Orleans. Barney\nwas foolin\u2019 \u2019round down the dock, helpin\u2019 the crew cast off. Cap\u2019n\nNickerson hollered over to him--\u2018Say, Barney--meet us down New Orleans\nto help us tie up, will ye?\u2019 You won\u2019t believe me, but sure enough,\nwhen the old schooner hove \u2019long side at the New Orleans dock, there\nwas Barney, waitin\u2019 to help tie up. He\u2019d walked all the way from P\u2019town\nto New Orleans.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 one time--bet you won\u2019t believe this either--he thought he\u2019d like\nt\u2019 see the Wild West. Yep--walked all the way to \u2019Frisco and back. Took\nhim near two years, but he said it was wuth it. \u2019Course, that was when\nhe was young and strong. Yep--he sure had a pair of legs, did Barney\nGould.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... It Pays to Keep\n      the Sabbath\n\n\nJoe Crocker, down Wellfleet way, learned through bitter experience that\nit pays to keep the Sabbath.\n\nJoe was always one to find a dollar, and when he did, he made the most\nof it. But he didn\u2019t hanker after what most folks call real work. His\nfinancial status depended mostly on old Lady Luck. And she chose one\nSunday to shine down on him.\n\nJoe was strolling down the beach one Sunday morning when God-fearing\nfolks were in church, and he came across a school of blackfish flung up\non the beach. Now a man who finds such a school of beached blackfish is\na fortunate one indeed, for he is well paid for the \u201cmelons\u201d that are\nfound in the skulls of the fish.\n\nOld Joe promptly set to work cutting his initials in the blackfish\nskulls as a claim to his ownership. He was busily engaged in this task\nwhen the Methodist minister came by and caught him in the act, so to\nspeak. He reprimanded him severely, and Joe just laughed. The minister\nsaid he could laugh then, but that he would get the devil\u2019s own pay\ntomorrow, and strode on. I guess he knew it was useless to try and\nconvert a melon-cutting heathen on the Sabbath.\n\nWell, early next morning, Joe went down to sell his fish, but the\nmarket prices had taken a sudden weekend drop, and the sperm oil man\nwouldn\u2019t buy. So there was Joe, left with a beach full of smelly\nblackfish. And you\u2019ve never smelled such a stench as comes up from a\nbeached school of blackfish when the wind is coming from the sea. The\ntownspeople finally couldn\u2019t stand it another minute, and a group of\nthem came down to the beach to get rid of the school. And sure enough,\nthere were Joe\u2019s initials, carved in the skulls where he had put them\non Sunday forenoon. Those initials J.C. were enough to convince every\nman jack of them that the whole smelly job was up to one man--the\nowner, and the owner was obviously Joe Crocker. He put up quite an\nargument, but he finally had to hire a half dozen fishermen to tow the\nblackfish back out to sea. The Methodist minister was heard to remark\nthat some people had to learn the hard way that it pays \u201cto keep the\nSabbath day.\u201d Joe didn\u2019t have a thing to say, and he still didn\u2019t come\nto Sunday meetin\u2019, but no one ever saw him looking for easy work on the\nSabbath again.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... Timmy Drew and\n      The Bull Frogs\n\n\nOnce upon a time, it is said, there lived in Chatham on Cape Cod a\nlittle whipper-snapper of a fellow, named Timothy Drew. Timmy was not\nmore than four-feet-eight, and that standing in his thick-soled boots.\nAnd so, as befalls so many unfortunates of Timmy\u2019s stature, he was\nforced to accept heckling from his taller associates, among whom Timmy\nappeared a dwarf. But long-legged men held no fears for Timmy, for\nalthough small, he made up in spirit what he lacked in bulk, as is so\noften the case with small men. Timmy was all pluck and gristle, and no\nsteel trap was smarter.\n\nWhen Timmy refused to stand for the gibes that were thrown at him,\nhe was chock full of fight. To be sure, he could hit his tormentors\nno higher than the belt-buckle, but his blows were so rapid and full\nof force that he beat the daylights out of many a ten-footer. When\nTimmy was in his fiery youth, the words \u201cIf you say that \u2019ere again,\nI\u2019ll knock you into the middle of next week!\u201d were enough to quell any\nbelligerent.\n\nTimmy Drew was a natural born shoemaker. No man around could hammer out\na piece of leather with such speed and accuracy. Timmy used his knee\nfor a lap stone, and years of thumping made it hard and stiff as an\niron hinge. Timmy\u2019s shoe shop was near a pleasant valley on the edge\nof a pond. In the Spring, this pond was a fashionable gathering place\nfor hundreds of bull frogs, that came there from all parts to spend\nthe warm season. Several of these bull frogs were of extraordinary\nsize, and as they became used to Timmy, who spent some time down near\nthe pond\u2019s edge feeding them, they would draw near to his shop, raise\ntheir heads, and swell out their throats like balloons until the area\nvibrated with their basso music. Timmy, keeping busily at his work to\nthe accompaniment of this bull frog male chorus, beat time for them\nwith his tooling hammer, and in this manner the hours passed away as\npleasantly as the day is long.\n\nNow Timmy was not one of those shoemakers who stick eternally to their\nbench like a ball of wax. In fact, Timmy made a habit of carrying his\nwork to his customer\u2019s house, partly for assurance of perfect fit and\npartly for company. Then, too, he always stopped at the tavern on his\nway home from work for sociability and to inquire about the day\u2019s news.\nIt was here especially that Timmy found his size unfortunate, for here\ngathered all the jokers and wags of the neighborhood, as well as the\nnotoriously teasing and practical joking peddlers. Although Timmy felt\nas uncomfortable as a short-tailed horse in fly time in this company,\nhe loved to be there and reveled in the conversation and the stories\nthat were told.\n\nUnfortunately for Timmy, however, the peddlers took the keenest delight\nin imposing on his credulity as well as on his stature. They always\nseemed to have the most amazing conglomeration of tall stories at\nhand, but also seemed to have even more amazing ones when the gullible\nTimmy was present. They had learned long before that Timmy was not\nto be toyed with about his height, but still retained their practice\nof goading him on to believe their incredibly tall tales. And there\nwas no one who can describe an incredible fact with more plausibility\nthan a peddler. His profession alone had taught him to maintain an\niron gravity when selling his wares, which, with very few exceptions,\ncould certainly not sell themselves. Thus their tales, sufficient in\nthemselves to embarrass any other narrator, carried great conviction.\n\nBut there was a joke which the peddlers played on Timmy that carried\nitself out far beyond any and all expectations. Many and diverse were\nthe pranks played on Timmy the gullible, but never before one with such\nrepercussions as this one, which, from the start, seemed made to order\nfor him.\n\nA fashionable tailor in the neighboring and larger village decided\nto advertise in Chatham, thereby bringing to himself trade from the\nsmall community and others like it. This tailor took it on himself\nto have a large and flaming advertisement made which was posted in\nthe tavern which Timmy frequented on his way home from the shoe shop.\nThe advertisement excited general interest, for the tailor asserted\nto have, at greatly reduced prices, a splendid assortment of coats,\npantaloons and waistcoats of all colors and fashions, as well as a\ngreat variety of trimmings such as tape, thread, buckram, ribbons,\nand--this last item was especially stressed--\u201cfrogs,\u201d those cord\nmaterial hooks in the shape of that deep-throated and squat reptile.\n\nThe next time Timmy appeared at the tavern, his associates and peddler\nhecklers pointed out to him the advertisement, with special stress on\nthe \u201cfrogs.\u201d They reminded him of the plenteous supply of these frogs\nto be found in his own neighboring Lily Pond.\n\n\u201cWhy, Timmy,\u201d they said, \u201cthis is the chance of a life time. If you\nwere to give up shoemaking and take to frog catching, you would make\nyour tarnal fortune!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow so?\u201d asked Timmy.\n\n\u201cWhy, lad,\u201d spoke up one of the peddlers, \u201ccan\u2019t you see by that poster\nthat frogs are in great demand in fashionable tailoring?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Timmy,\u201d spoke up still another conspirator in the joke, \u201cyou\nmight bag a thousand in half a day, and folks say they will bring a\ndollar a thousand!\u201d\n\nIt was obvious that these words had a great effect on Timmy, for he was\ncarefully considering the suggestion, and could see the money pouring\nalready into his outstretched hands.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s frogs enough in Lily Pond,\u201d he mused, \u201cbut it\u2019s tarnation hard\nwork to catch \u2019em. I swaggers! They\u2019re plaguey slippery fellows!\u201d\n\nThen up spoke Joe Gawky, by far the most infamous practical jokester\nin the company. \u201cNever mind, Timmy. Take a fish net and scoop \u2019em up.\nYou must have \u2019em alive, and fresh.\u201d And then, drawing Timmy aside, Joe\nwhispered, \u201cTell you what I\u2019ll do. I\u2019ll go you shares. Say nothing of\nit to anyone. Tomorrow night I\u2019ll come up and help you catch a goodly\nbatch, and we\u2019ll divide the gain.\u201d\n\nTimmy was in raptures. But he was, as you will soon see, counting his\nfrogs before they were caught.\n\nAs Timmy walked home that night, a cagy thought, upon which he inwardly\nprided himself, came into his head. Thought Timmy, \u201cThese \u2019ere frogs\nin a manner belong to me, since my shop stands near Lily Pond. Why\nshould I make two bites at a cherry and divide profits with Joe Gawky?\nBy gravy! I\u2019ll get up early in the morning, and be off with a batch\nof them to the tailor\u2019s before sunrise, and so keep the money all to\nmyself!\u201d\n\nAnd so he did. Never before had there been such a stir among the placid\nfrogs of Lily Pond. In fact, they were taken quite by surprise, and\nwith no little difficulty. Timmy captured a huge bag of them and set\noff on his journey to the tailor\u2019s.\n\nMr. Buckram, the fashionable tailor, was an elderly gentleman, and a\nnervous one, and, when disturbed, inclined to be peevish. Mr. Buckram\nwas also very particular both about his own attire and that of his\ncustomers, and prided himself on the neat-as-a-pin appearance of his\nshop.\n\nThe unsuspecting Mr. Buckram was busily engaged in making a waistcoat\nfor a Harwich gentleman when Timmy entered the shop. The sight of Timmy\nalone was enough to make anyone take notice, but Timmy, together with\na large and curiously jumping bag slung over his shoulder was indeed a\nsight to see. Timmy wasted no time in preliminaries, perhaps under the\nimpression that big business needed no introduction. Since the tailor\nhad not noticed or seemingly did not hear his entrance into the quiet\nshop, Timmy assumed that the elderly man was deaf. So, without further\nado, Timmy leaned down, and, pressing his mouth near the old man\u2019s\nhead, bellowed at the top of his lungs, \u201cDo you want any frogs today?\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe old gentleman dropped his shears and jumped clear off his stool in\nastonishment, viewing Timmy with a mixture of amazement and alarm. \u201cEh?\nAny frogs? What in tarnation for?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve got a fine lot here,\u201d persisted Timmy, thinking the tailor was\nbeing shrewd. \u201cThey are jest from the pond, and lively as grasshoppers!\u201d\n\nMr. Buckram was plainly confused. \u201cDon\u2019t bellow in my ears,\u201d he\nexclaimed. \u201cI\u2019m not deaf! Tell me what you want and then be off.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to sell you these frogs. You shall have them at a bargain. Only\none dollar a hundred. I won\u2019t take a cent less. Do you want them or\nnot? If I can\u2019t get satisfaction here, I shall go elsewhere, and you\nshall miss out on a great bargain!\u201d\n\nMr. Buckram thought he was face to face with a miniature mad man, and\nattempted to rid himself of the small nuisance with bravado. \u201cNo, I\ndon\u2019t want any frogs. Now get out of my shop, you young fool!\u201d\n\n\u201cI say you do want \u2019em!\u201d shouted Timmy, \u201cbut you\u2019re playing offish-like\nto beat down my price. I won\u2019t take a cent less, I tell you!\u201d\n\nThe conversation went on like this for fully ten minutes, and finally\nTimmy, puzzled, mortified, and angry, slowly withdrew. \u201cHe won\u2019t buy\n\u2019em,\u201d thought Timmy \u201cfor what they are worth. And as for taking nothing\nfor them, I won\u2019t. And yet, I don\u2019t want to lug them back to Lily Pond\nagain. Curse the old man anyway. I\u2019ll try him once more, and be durned\nif I\u2019ll ever plague myself this way again!\u201d\n\nAnd once more he entered the tailor shop.\n\n\u201cMr. Buckram, this is absolutely your last chance. Are you willing to\ngive me anything for these frogs?\u201d\n\nThe old man was goaded beyond endurance. He sprang from his work and\ntook after Timmy with his long shears.\n\n\u201cWell, then\u201d said Timmy bitterly, as he backed away, \u201cTake \u2019em among\nye for nothing,\u201d and so saying, emptied the contents of the bag on the\nfloor of the shop and marched indignantly away.\n\nWell, you can imagine the confusion that followed. One hundred live\nbull frogs had a marvelous time jumping about the shop. Every nook and\ncorner had a bull frog in it, and to make matters worse and add to the\nconfusion, they set up a loud and indignant cacophony of chug-a-lums.\n\nAnd thus dissolved the golden visions of Timmy the Frog Catcher.\n\nAfter this affair, Timmy could not bear the thought, sight, sound,\nor mention of a frog. He never admitted that a joke had been played\non him, but his associates would not let him forget the incident.\nThey referred constantly to the matter. He was rarely seen now at\nthe tavern, and even the town children called after him on the\nstreet--\u201cThere goes the frog catcher.\u201d You see the story had spread up\nand down the Cape, and Timmy had no peace.\n\nThe sound of frogs singing in the Lily Pond incensed Timmy to such\na degree that he would run out of the shop and pelt the poor things\nwith stones to stop their noise. It seemed after a while that their\nsong, which he heard both day and night, had definite words in it, and\ncontained his own name.\n\nOn one night in particular, Timmy was awakened from sound sleep by a\ntremendous bellowing directly under his window. It seemed as if all the\nfrogs in the world were clearing their throats for a mass chug-a-lum.\nHe listened with amazement, and could soon distinguish--\n\n  Boooooooo\n  Timmy Drew-o-o-o\n  I can make a shoe-o-o-o\n  As well as you-o-o-o\n  And better too-o-o-o\n  Timmy Drew-o-o-o\n  Boooooooo\n\nTimmy was certain no ordinary frogs could pipe out such a song at that\nrate. He leaped out of bed and rushed from the house. \u201cI\u2019ll teach those\nrascals to come around plaguing me,\u201d he said. But no one could be seen.\nIt was a clear bright night, all was solitary and still, save for an\noccasional rumble from the sleeping frogs. After throwing a few stones\ninto the bushes, Timmy retired once more and fell into uneasy sleep.\n\nThe amazing concert continued night after night, swelling on the\nevening breeze, and then sinking away into the distance. Again and\nagain Timmy attempted to discover who were the perpetrators of the\nnightly serenading. They could not be found. He began to feel certain\nthat he was to be forever haunted by the music. His friends sympathized\nwith him, but Timmy was too upset to sense the mischief in the air.\n\nThe next time Timmy stopped at the tavern, he found all in earnest\nconsultation.\n\n\u201cHere he comes,\u201d said one, as soon as Timmy entered.\n\n\u201cHave you heard the news?\u201d inquired the tavern keeper.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Timmy with a groan.\n\n\u201cJoe Gawky \u2019as seen sech a critter in the pond! A monstrous large frog,\nas big as an ox, with eyes as large as a horse. I never heard of no\nsuch thing in all my born days!\u201d\n\n\u201cNor I,\u201d said Sam Greening.\n\n\u201cNor I,\u201d said Josh Whiting.\n\n\u201cNor I,\u201d said Tom Bizbee.\n\n\u201cI have heard tell of sech a critter in Ohio,\u201d said Eb Crawley. \u201cFrogs\nhave been seed there, as big as a suckling pig, but not in these \u2019ere\nparts.\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Timmings,\u201d said Sam Greening, \u201cfeels quite melancholy about it.\nShe guesses as how it\u2019s a sign of some terrible thing that\u2019s going to\nhappen.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was fishing for pickerel,\u201d said Joe Gawky, who, by the way, was a\ntall, spindle-shanked fellow, with a white head, and who stooped in\nthe chest like a crook-necked squash. \u201cI was after pickerel, and had a\nfrog\u2019s leg for bait. There was a tarnation big pickerel just springing\nat the line, when out sailed this great he-devil from under the bank.\nBy the living hokey! He was as large as a small-sized man! Such a\nstraddle-bug I never seed! I up line, and cleared out like a blue fish,\nI can tell you!\u201d\n\nTimmy searched anxiously the faces of all present for some sign of\nspoofing, but he could see only sober concern that credited the story.\nHe began to feel very uneasy.\n\n\u201cThat must be the critter I heard t\u2019other night in the pond!\u201d exclaimed\nJosh Whiting. \u201cI swanny, he roared louder than a bull.\u201d\n\nThis last statement aroused in Timmy divers emotions, all connected\nwith the serenading that had been his for the past many nights. In\nvain, the company questioned him concerning his knowledge of the\nmatter. He would not say a word.\n\nAfter this introduction, the conversation took naturally to discussion\nof the supernatural. Each one had some story to tell of witches, ghosts\nand goblins. By degrees, the company dispersed, until Timmy Drew found\nhimself quite alone. He found it difficult to get up and start home,\nfor the conversation had impressed him more than he would admit at\nthe time, and the walk home by the Lily Pond was nothing he cared to\nconsider.\n\nAt length, he got up courage and started home. His course lay over a\nsolitary road, darkened by over-shadowing trees. A tomb-like silence,\nheightened by his thoughts, prevailed, disturbed only by his echoing\nfoot-steps. Timmy Drew marched straight ahead with a stealthy pace, not\ndaring to look behind, yet dreading to proceed by Lily Pond. At last\nhe reached the top of the hill at the foot of which were his house and\nLily Pond. He had just about reached his door, when a sudden rustle of\nleaves by the pond brought his heart dry and bitter to his mouth. At\nthis moment, the moon slipped aside a cloud and seemed to focus on an\nobject that turned Timmy to stone on the spot. An unearthly monster,\nin the shape of a mammoth bull frog, sat on its ugly haunches, glaring\nat him with eyes like burning coals. With a single leap, it was by\nTimmy\u2019s side, and he felt one of his ankles caught in a cold wet grasp.\nTerror gave him strength. With a howl and a Herculean effort, he pulled\nhimself away from the monster\u2019s clutches and tore up the hill.\n\n\u201cBy the living hokey!\u201d said Joe Gawky, slowly rising from the ground\nand arranging his clothing. \u201cWho\u2019d uv guessed thet this \u2019ere old\npumpkin head atop my shoulder with a candle a-burning in it would have\nset old Timmy\u2019s stiff knees a-goin\u2019 at that rate! I couldn\u2019t see him\ntravel for the dust his boots rose!\u201d\n\nIt is hardly necessary to add that Cape Cod saw no more of the Frog\nCatcher from Chatham, Timothy Drew.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Wrong Gulls\n\n\nCap\u2019n Caleb Nickerson of Truro, master of a large ship which oftentimes\ntook on young boys as apprentices and cabin boys, was sailing home to\nthe Cape after a long journey. When the ship was almost to P\u2019town,\nCap\u2019n Nick, bone-weary and worn from the long run, decided to turn the\nwheel over to young David, a youth who had shipped out with him to\nlearn the fine art of seamanship.\n\n\u201cBut, Cap\u2019n Nickerson,\u201d the boy demurred, \u201cI don\u2019t know much about\nnavigation yet, and the compass is still strange to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Lad,\u201d said Caleb reassuringly. \u201cSee them gulls over\nthere? Wal, just folly them right along, and they\u2019ll take ye right home\nto port.\u201d\n\nWith these words, Cap\u2019n Nickerson went below to his quarters for a\nsnooze. When he awoke a few hours later, he peered out of the porthole\nand was dumfounded to find himself still out in the open ocean, when\nthe ship should have arrived in Provincetown long before. Rushing\nmadly topside, the cap\u2019n grabbed poor Dave by the nape of the neck, and\nin a few choice mariner\u2019s words, demanded what in tarnation he thought\nhe was doing.\n\n\u201cBut, Cap\u2019n,\u201d exclaimed the perplexed boy, \u201cyou told me to folly them\ngulls over there, and I\u2019ve been right on their trail!\u201d\n\nCap\u2019n Nick grabbed the telescope, took one squint-eyed look at the\ngulls, and then bellowed, \u201cWhy you durn fool! Them\u2019s Chatham gulls, not\nTruro gulls!\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n  ... She Had the Last Word\n\n\nA Cape Cod widow, whose married life had been far from peaceful and\nhappy, refused to let the minister write a flowery tribute for her\nhusband\u2019s gravestone, as was the custom.\n\nBut propriety and convention of the times insisted that something\nappear carved on the headstone, and so the indomitable woman left the\nchoice of verse entirely up to the local stone-cutter. He resorted to\nthe stock phrase:\n\n  \u201cAs I am now, so you will be--\n  Prepare for death and follow me.\u201d\n\nConvention thus being satisfied, no more was thought of the matter, but\nwhen friends and relatives paid their next visit to the grave, they\nwere shocked and stunned to see, carved beneath the stone-cutter\u2019s\nverse, these lines:\n\n  \u201cTo follow you I\u2019ll not consent,\n  Because--I know which way you went!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Singular Case of the\n      Young Anatomist\n\n\nFate, that capricious ruler of the tides that governs our lives,\narranged a meeting on the wild, windswept Hill of Storms in Truro on\nCape Cod; a meeting so strange that, for the sake of credulity, I must\nwithhold the name of the earthly being who took part in it. For it was\non a dark Fall night, long ago, that a Cape Cod boy, with nothing in\nhis pockets but his dreams and a burning ambition, met and talked with\na live skeleton, and, caught up on the crest of Fate\u2019s precarious wave,\nwas swept high to Fame and Fortune.\n\nWe will call him Tom, and nothing else, this young and ardent hero of\nour story, for if, in the telling of this strange tale, which I swear\nto be true, the real name of the young man were disclosed, you, gentle\nreader, would scoff and read no further.\n\nA look at young Tom as this amazing story unfolds would reveal a\nsingularly insignificant youth, dreamy of eye and slight of form.\nTom burned with that white flame of ambition thwarted by a financial\nstanding about equal to that of a beachcomber, and a scanty country\neducation. But youth has strange ways of overcoming such obstacles,\nand Tom\u2019s energies, rather than diminishing, seemed to gather momentum\nand strength from the meagre stuff upon which they were fed. Why or\nhow, cut off as he was from higher learning, Tom chose Anatomy as his\nfield to conquer, no one knows, but chose it he did. He spent every\nwaking hour and every dream yearning for the day when he would be\nable to buy for himself the text books that would pave his rocky road\nto Success. A penny here, and, a week later, a penny there--finally\nTom was able to purchase a small text on Anatomy. In less than three\nweeks, he had memorized, with the correct Latin names thrown in for\ngood measure, every word, every definition, every diagram in the text\nbook. This subject was his life, and he wrapped himself so completely\nin his fierce desires that to shake hands with a man became not merely\na gesture of friendship, but a good chance to feel the finger bones\nmanipulate. But, happily, Tom was too intelligent not to know that\nthis knowledge, although he could describe exactly the position, use,\nand articulation of every bone in the human body, did not make him an\nanatomist. For his descriptions were merely a repetition of the words\nin the small book which had become his bible. His burning desires now\nchanged course to those of seeing and examining an actual skeleton, and\nthese thoughts buzzed around in his mind like a swarm of angry bees.\n\nA pensive, solitary figure, Tom sat one night by the huge fireplace\nin the local Inn, lost in thought and dream. The flames in the fire\nbefore him took the shape of grinning, cavorting skeletons. He was so\nabsorbed in his dream-world that the noisy animation and conversation\nabout him pricked his consciousness no harder than a fly on an\nelephant\u2019s hide. The men were talking, as they had for weeks, about old\nCyrus Goodestone, a man always thought of as rich, but who had died\nwithout a trace of money to be found anywhere, much to the distress of\nhis creditors.\n\nBut when, during one of those violent and sudden early Spring rain\nstorms, the door of the Inn flew open, and a hooded and cloaked\nstranger strode into the room, even Tom took notice. For the stranger\nstood before the fire, his back to the company, and neither spoke nor\nturned when greeted. The storm stopped as suddenly as it had started,\nand when the moonlight shone once more through the window, the stranger\nheeled about, gathered his voluminous cloak more closely about him, and\nleft. An eeler, sitting near Tom, spoke up:\n\n\u201cThat be a queer chap. I\u2019m a-goin\u2019 to see what he\u2019s about,\u201d and with\nthese words, he too left the Inn.\n\nLess than five minutes later, he returned, white as a flounder\u2019s belly.\nHe made a beeline for the table, and gulped down a glass of rum. Then,\ngasping, partly from fright and partly from the raw drink of rum, he\nspoke.\n\n\u201cUdds hiddikins! Old chap just gone out--got no proper face like--only\na Death\u2019s head--looked me square in the face in the moonlight, he did,\nand I c\u2019n tell ye, I waited to see no more!\u201d\n\nAt this startling tale, Tom sprang from his lethargy like a man\npossessed, and clutching the terrified eeler by the coat lapels, he\nyelled, \u201cYou mean--he was a skeleton?\u201d When the answer was a startled\n\u201cyes,\u201d Tom shouted, \u201cWhich way did he go?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, down towards the graveyard, sure,\u201d said the eeler. But Tom was\nout the door before the words had barely tickled the lips of the eeler.\n\nNo thought that the eeler might have been \u201cseein\u2019 things\u201d entered Tom\u2019s\nmind and he tore down the road toward the graveyard on Truro\u2019s Hill of\nStorms. The wild wind, the scudding clouds that made the night a night\nof shadows, the bony-fingered branches that picked at his face as he\nran through the shortcut in the woods--of these things Tom was unaware.\nFor on the Hill of Storms, midst gravestones battered by sea winds and\nspray, was his heart\u2019s desire!\n\nTom stood at the top of the hill, bracing himself against the sea wind.\nHis heart thudded against his ribs like the heavy breakers that boomed\nagainst the rocks below. His wild eyes swept the graveyard, and then,\nin the split second when the clouds parted, and the moon shone through,\nTom saw, still enveloped in the cloak, the figure from the Inn, gazing\nsorrowfully down at the new grave marker of Cyrus Goodestone. Then, in\na sudden sweep of wind, the cloak billowed up, fell to the ground--and\nleft, gleaming phosphorously in the misty moonlight, the unbelievable\nfigure of a Skeleton!\n\n\u201cThank my stars!\u201d yelled Tom. \u201cI have found my Skeleton at last!\u201d\n\n\u201cYoung man,\u201d said the Skeleton in a hollow voice, clacking his hideous\nhinged jaws, \u201cAttend!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow beautifully,\u201d cried Tom, ignoring the command, \u201ccan I see the play\nof the lower maxilliary!\u201d\n\n\u201cAttend, I say!\u201d repeated the Skeleton, in a still more frightening\nvoice. And then, turning, \u201cRash boy, what are you about?\u201d exclaimed\nthe bony apparition. The fact is, our enthralled hero was busily\nrunning his fingers up and down the vertebrae of the Skeleton, counting\nthem to see if they corresponded with the number given in his book, and\nmuttering gleefully, \u201cSeven cervical, twelve dorsal--just right!\u201d\n\nThe Skeleton, angered and shocked speechless, raised his arm and shook\nhis fist at the absorbed Tom, who, with his eyes fixed on the bony\nelbow, merely shouted joyfully, \u201cThe gingyloid movement is perfect!\u201d\n\nThe Skeleton was plainly confused. Never before had he, accustomed to\nscaring the wits out of people, encountered any such attitude as this,\nfor Tom stood before him completely unafraid. He was amazed at the\nscientific stand taken by our young anatomist. As a matter of fact,\nthe skeleton began to feel a little wary himself, and moved away from\nTom, darting in and out from behind the gravestones in an effort to get\naway. But Tom was not to be put off at this late date, and overtaking\nthe Skeleton, grabbed on and held for all he was worth.\n\nThe ensuing conversation, however, was friendly, and the Skeleton\nexplained that he was old Cyrus Goodestone himself. He had, he said,\nburied his money underground, and could not rest in peace until he had\ndug it up and paid off his creditors. This he asked Tom to do. Tom\nconsented, upon one condition, which he laid in a very businesslike\nmanner before the Skeleton.\n\n\u201cIt will be some trouble,\u201d he said, \u201cand the affair is none of mine,\nbut look ye--I\u2019m willing to comply with your request, if, as a reward,\nyou will allow me to come here and study you every night for the next\nmonth. You may then retire to rest for as long a time as you please.\u201d\n\n\u201cAgreed!\u201d cried the Skeleton, and, recovering from his original alarm,\nshook hands with the exultant Tom to seal this strange bargain.\n\nTom found the money, just as the Skeleton had said, distributed it\namong the amazed creditors of Cyrus Goodestone, and passed every night\nfor the next month in the graveyard on the Hill of Storms. There,\namidst the gravestones, he studied his accommodating Skeleton, who,\nas it turned out, was a congenial and humorous fellow. The Skeleton\ntirelessly moved into any position or pose Tom requested, giving the\nyoung anatomist an opportunity no other had ever, or will ever have,\nthat of watching the actual bone movement of a live Skeleton!\n\nBy the end of the month, Tom and his Skeleton were warm friends, for\nthey had discussed many things, and had played cribbage by the grave\nof Cyrus Goodestone, upon many occasions when the night\u2019s posing was\ndone. They parted with regrets, and the Skeleton wished Tom success and\nhappiness in his career.\n\nTom completely retained in his mind all he had observed in his amazing\nmonth\u2019s study, and by that knowledge, laid the foundation of a profound\nanatomical science by which he was afterwards to become famous.\n\nIt is needless to state that the above is the early history of an\nobscure Cape Cod boy with a dream who became a famous anatomist, and\nthat any and all other accounts are baseless fabrications.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: _The Mooncussers_]\n\n\n\n\n  ... The Mooncussers of\n  Cape Cod\n\n\nRemaining only in tradition as some of the most colorful characters in\nthe unending novel of Cape Cod are the swashbuckling domestic pirates\nknown politely as salvagers, romantically as mooncussers, and more\nauthentically as bandits.\n\nFables and tradition say that a band of these men anciently infested\nthe shores of Cape Cod. But they were not merely plunderers who swept\ndown on unsuspecting victims; their business was a serious, planned and\nprofitable one, flavored with a touch of the wildly romantic stuff of\nwhich pirate stories are made. Theirs was a dangerous game, and they\nplayed it well.\n\nThe whole band of them were mounted on horses when they began their\nnightly adventures. Up and down the beaches they rode, armed with large\nlanterns which they placed at strategically dangerous points along the\nshores. These decoy lanterns led ships astray on treacherous sandbars\nand shoals. This completed, they plundered them of everything, leaving\nthe ships stripped and gutted.\n\nA group of the mooncussers would divide, two of them tramping the\nbeach in one direction, two in the other, a shingle held up to protect\ntheir eyes from the flying sand, and straining to pierce the darkness\nfor a light from a ship in distress or for a glimpse of a hull on the\nbars off shore. Perhaps the first sign would be a spar flung up by the\nwild surf, the tattered remnants of a sail, or the still and battered\nform of a dead sailor. It is easy to see the origin of the word\n\u201cmooncusser,\u201d for moonlight nights held no profit for these men, and\nthe beauty of moonlight on still ocean was cursed and not admired.\n\nThe nights of the mooncussers were the nights of howling winds,\nthundering surf, and a wild and turbulent sea, for those were the\nnights when the work of the mooncussers were the most profitable. It\nwas a wild setting for a wild play.\n\nBut the advent of the huge lighthouses, put up after much opposition,\nespecially from the men of Eastham, put an end to mooncussing, for the\ngreat white eye of the light beacon could pierce the darkness of a\nnight even brighter than the hated full moon.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... How the Fogs Came\n      to the Cape\n\n\nFor many, many moons, the great tribe of the Mattacheesits had lived in\npeace in their lodges near the clear blue waters of Cummaquid. It was\na noble tribe, renowned for its beautiful young maidens, its fearless\nbraves, and especially for its Great War Sachem, the Giant Manshope.\nBut the heartbreaking mourning of the death dirge had many times wailed\nthrough the camp, for the Mattacheesits had a foe far more terrible\nthan any fierce enemy tribe.\n\nTwice each year since the beginning of Time--once in the Moon of\nBright Nights, and again in the Moon of Falling Leaves--the Great Devil\nBird from over the Southern Sea spread wide his smothering wings and\nswept down on the tribe, capturing in his terrible talons the little\npapooses, and even some of the youngest braves who had just learned\nthe art of the tomahawk. With a laughing shriek, he bore them away to\nhis secret lair in the Region of the South Wind, where no man had ever\nventured. They were never seen again.\n\nOn the eve of a triumphant victory over the Nausets, Great War Sachem\nManshope returned, leading his braves in the ritual chant-dance of\nvictory. But the battlecry was mingled with the wail of the death\ndirge, floating up towards the braves from the camp, and echoing\nsorrowfully through the stillness of the summer evening. The Giant\nManshope found his faithful squaw with face gashed and breast torn, the\nashes heaped on her head mingling with tears of anguish, for the Great\nDevil Bird had carried away her first-born, a strong young brave of\njust sixteen summers. The Devil Bird had carried him off to the Unknown\nPlace before the sun had dropped from the edge of the world.\n\nA fierce cry, filled with all the venom and hate and sorrow of many\nmoons and many deaths, tore from the throat of Manshope. His people\ntrembled with fear and pride as they watched him stand there, his face\naglow with the call of battle, his eyes savage with hate and revenge,\nfor they knew that their great leader would leave for the Unknown\nPlace, stalking the Great Devil Bird.\n\nHis huge war tomahawk in his hand, Manshope strode away without a word\nfrom the camp, the wails of the sorrowing squaws and the war shrieks\nof the braves echoing in his ears. The war drums beat their relentless\nrhythm of death for the Devil Bird. With giant strides that took him\nacross the breadth of the Cape, Manshope plunged thigh deep through the\ndeepest streams, pushed trees aside in forests he had no time to skirt,\nand came at length to the low treacherous swamplands that lay at the\nedge of the Southern Sea, the last barrier to the Unknown Place. In the\nmisty half-light, Manshope saw, far in the distance, the Great Devil\nBird, its human prey in its talons, winging its way swiftly towards its\nlair.\n\nMany wondered, but none knew what lay in the Unknown Place across the\nSouthern Sea, for no man had dared cross the churning waters to that\nisland lair of the Devil Bird. But the Sachem\u2019s eyes saw the turbulent\nwaters not as danger, but as a bloody challenge. The Giant Manshope\ncalled out to the Great Spirit to give him the strength and cunning to\nfollow the Devil Bird to its hiding place and slay him there. Then he\nstrode boldly forth into the deep, treacherous waters.\n\nGuided only by the stars, he came at length to the strange and feared\nUnknown Place, now Martha\u2019s Vineyard. From the western end of the\nisland, he saw majestically sheer cliffs which rose straight from the\nsea. At the narrowest end of the land, he saw something which made his\nheart sink, and his blood run cold in his veins, for there was a giant\noak, its twisted exposed roots strewn with the white bleached bones of\nIndian children captured by the Devil Bird for countless years.\n\nThe Giant Manshope crept noiselessly towards the death tree. Under the\nenveloping shadows of its great branches he looked up, and saw the dim\nsilhouette of the Devil Bird sleeping in the uppermost branches. Its\nhead was beneath its wing, its beak dripped blood, and its belly was\ndistended with gluttonous human feasting.\n\nManshope glanced at the stone tomahawk in his hand, and saw it gleam\nin the half-light. He fastened it to his belt, and then swung himself\nsoundlessly up through the branches towards the sleeping Devil Bird. At\nlast he reached his goal at the top of the Death Tree, so close to the\nBird that the night breeze ruffled its feathers across Manshope\u2019s cheek.\n\nThere he paused, gazing down at the Bird, hate in his eyes, his heart\nbeating wildly with the excitement of near victory and revenge. He\nraised his weapon high over his head and brought it down with a\ncrushing thud on the neck of the Devil Bird. The Great Evil One fell to\nearth, never to rise again.\n\nPanting with excitement and triumph, Manshope waited until he was sure\nthe Devil Bird was dead before he left the hated Death Tree and its\nsorrowful remains. But his triumph had a bitter taste, and his heart\nwas heavy, for although he had vanquished the Great Evil One, his soul\ncried out in anguish for his beloved son.\n\nLost in sorrowful meditation, Manshope rested for a while at the\nnorthern end of the island before returning to his camp on the\nmainland. He drew forth his pipe, but the tobacco was dampened by the\nwaters through which he had plunged, and would not burn, so he gathered\nsome poke weed, and, loading his pipe, sat quietly smoking. As he\nsmoked, the rings and swirls from his pipe billowed and rose through\nthe early morning air. It floated across the Southern Sea, over the\nCape moors and the lodges of the Indian camp, where his sorrowing squaw\nawaited his return.\n\nGreat was the rejoicing in the Indian lodges when Manshope\u2019s people saw\nthis smoke, for they knew that their Great Sachem would never linger to\nsmoke his pipe while an enemy he was stalking was still alive.\n\nThe Great Devil Bird no longer ravaged and killed, and the Indians\nlived without fear once more. And when the sweet summer air drifted in\nfrom the woods, the mist lay low on the swamplands, and the fog bank\nfrom the sound curled in over the mainland just as the smoke from Giant\nManshope\u2019s pipe did on that morning--Indian mothers drew their children\ncloser to the fire, and while the enveloping mists and fogs crept\nslowly in, they told them the legend of the Great Devil Bird, saying,\n\u201cHere comes Old Manshope\u2019s Smoke.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Peddler\u2019s Coffin\n\n\nThe winter nights are long on Cape Cod. When the lonely winds howled\n\u2019round the house, and the naked branches tap-tapped against the\nwindowpane, friends and neighbors gathered in the big, warm kitchen of\nthe old Nickerson farmhouse down Rock Harbor Road in Orleans for an\nevening of story telling and popcorn or apple roasting.\n\nJonathan Snow, twelve years old, full of imagination and very\nimpressionable, loved these story evenings. Jonathan would curl up in\nhis favorite niche between the fireplace and the window, and there,\nmunching on apples, would listen pop-eyed to the spooky stories. Here\nhe was close enough to the bright, friendly fireplace to feel secure,\nbut also close enough to the dark eye of the window and the wild, windy\nnight to feel a delicious tingle of fear run up and down his spine.\n\nOne bleak and howling February night, when the stories had been\nespecially hair-raising, a lull in the conversation and a few yawns\nproclaimed that it was time for all to depart for their respective\nhomes. Jonathan knew he should leave, but he felt chained to the\nfireside. He couldn\u2019t stay, was too proud to voice his fears, and yet\nshuddered at the thought of leaving this warm kitchen for the dark\nand lonely walk home. But boy\u2019s pride won. Jonathan buttoned up his\ngreatcoat, pulled his wool cap down over his ears, and bidding the\nNickersons a brave but reluctant good night, set off for home.\n\nIt was not far from the Nickerson to the Snow home, but the night was\na wild one; a night of wind and floating mist, when familiar daylight\nobjects assumed fantastic shapes, and the road was filled with shadowy\nforms. Jonathan held himself in admirable check for about 100 yards. He\nstrolled along whistling casually, but when he glanced back and could\nsee no more the winking lights of the Nickerson house, he was casual no\nlonger, and tore at breakneck speed down the road.\n\nRounding the turn that meant the halfway mark to home, in the place\nwhere the road was flanked on one side by a high stone wall and on the\nother by a creek which ran parallel to it, Jonathan stood stock still,\nblood turning to slow ice in his veins. For there, not four yards\nbefore him, gleaming in a flickering pool of moonlight that filtered\nthrough the scudding clouds, was a coffin.\n\nThree thoughts scampered through the terrified Jonathan\u2019s mind. He\ncould jump the stone wall, splash through the creek, or leap over\nthe coffin and make a dash for home and safety. And jump he did.\nNow a twelve-year-old Cape Cod boy can jump like a grasshopper, but\nJonathan did not jump high enough. Just as he thought he had cleared\nthe coffin, and indeed, his feet were running before they touched the\nground, his ankle was clutched by a bony hand, and he was pulled right\ninto the terrible coffin!\n\nReflex action and young strength bounded together simultaneously. Using\nall his energy, Jonathan pushed out with his hands and heels and leaped\nfrom the coffin like fat from a hot skillet. Scared near out of his\nwits, Jonathan broke an all-time speed record to home. There he babbled\nout his story to puzzled parents, who, as hardy Cape Codders, scoffed\nat the idea of a coffin, but decided to go and investigate anyway. So\nJonathan, armed with mother and father, returned to the fateful spot,\nonly to find that the \u201ccoffin\u201d was a two-bushel market basket which had\nrolled from a peddler\u2019s cart, and which, in the dark night, Jonathan\u2019s\naroused imagination had turned into an occupied coffin. The resident of\nthe coffin, which Jonathan believed had clutched his ankle, was only\nthe high basket handle which he did not clear in his leap for life.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Whale that Went to\n      New York\n\n\nIt all started when a seventy-ton whale washed ashore at Wellfleet.\nNow, seventy tons of whale is no easy thing to deal with, and the costs\nof towing the whale back out to sea were more than the town fathers\nfelt the thin town treasury purse could afford. Many suggestions were\noffered, but two enterprising old sea captains hit on a plan to raise\nenough money for the project with perhaps money left over to add to the\ntown funds.\n\nWhy not charge admission to see the whale? This seemed like an\nexcellent scheme but the Board of Health had something to say about\nhaving a dead whale on the docks that squelched the plan before it got\ninto motion. But the old seamen, undaunted, still thought it was a good\nplan.\n\nYankee ingenuity reached an all-time high when the captains decided to\nfind out for themselves just how many people would pay fifty cents for\nthe dubious privilege of seeing a seventy-ton dead whale. They decided\nto tow the monster to New York, paying all towing charges, which were\nby no means slight, themselves. Their fellow townsmen scoffed at\nthe idea, but the two captains answered that the whole project would\nundoubtedly reap a goodly financial harvest, and that the town could\nwhistle for a part of the expected profits. But, sad to relate, the\nget-rich-quick scheme back-fired, for the two down-Capers found that\nthe New York Board of Health was no more eager to have a month\u2019s\ndead whale reposing in smelly grandeur on their docks than were the\nWellfleet officials. And so the two captains, poorer but wiser, and by\nthis time sick and tired of the whole business, dug deep into their\npockets once more and made suitable arrangements for the disposal of\nthe whale. When they returned home and were met with a cross-fire of\nquestions, they had not a thing to say.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Snake Biting Indian\n\nTall, straight, and dark browed, Joseph Naughaught was a familiar\nfigure as he made his way throughout the Cape, Bible tucked under his\narm. Wherever his wandering feet brought him, he stopped to preach for\nChristianity, for he was a converted Indian. Pious, rum-hating Joseph\nwas a self-made man both educationally and religiously, and was well\nknown as a religiously, and at times, fanatically, sincere man--so well\nknown for this, in fact, that he soon came to be called \u201cThe Deacon.\u201d\n\nWhen \u201cThe Deacon\u201d was not evangelicaling, converting, or leading future\nconverts in prayer, he could be found, in all seasons, strolling\nleisurely through the woods and along the beaches.\n\nOne bright Fall day, when the Deacon was walking through the Truro\nHills, he came to his favorite place of meditation, a rocky, cave-like\nshelter which was close to the ocean bluffs. There he sat for some\ntime, quietly smoking and thinking, when his thoughts were arrested by\na strange and ominous hissing.\n\nThe Deacon was trapped, for there directly before the mouth of the\ncave, was a huge circle of deadly black snakes. The Deacon was unarmed,\nand the snakes he knew, would close in on him faster than light at his\nslightest movement. He sat frozen with horror.\n\nThe minutes dragged by. The Deacon never took his eyes off the snakes,\nand they in turn were like frozen black ribbons, heads slightly raised,\nas they stared at him with eyes he could not see. The small gusts of\noccasional sea breeze were cold against the Deacon\u2019s skin, for he was\ndrenched with the sweat of fear.\n\nThe snakes crawled slowly towards him, with one of the black lines a\nlittle ahead of the others. When the reptiles reached his feet, they\nstopped once more. He could hear their soft hissing, and feel the\nweight of the lead snake across his foot. They moved again, like a\nsoft, clinging wave, slithering and undulating towards him. Sluggishly\nand relentlessly they moved up his immobile form, until they had twined\ntheir dank bodies all around him. They clung to him like tenacious\npieces of damp wool. The Deacon could see their wicked slit eyes,\nbright and expressionless, but deadly; he could hear their hissing\nbreaths, and feel their hungry bodies in a horrid caress. Still he did\nnot move a hair, a muscle--he seemed not to breathe. The leader snake\nwas wound around his neck, and was looking, his head raised, right at\nthe Deacon, darting its flat head in and out at the Indian\u2019s face.\n\nOn one of these thrusts, when the snake\u2019s head came within an inch of\nhis mouth, the Deacon opened wide his great jaws, and at the moment\nwhen the snake thrust its head inquiringly inside, the Deacon clamped\nshut his huge teeth, and bit the snake\u2019s head off. This so frightened\nthe rest of the snakes that they hurtled themselves from the Deacon\u2019s\nbody and fled. Some of the black reptiles were stunned from their fall,\nand the Deacon, master of the field, quickly killed them with a huge\nstone. The dead snakes he skinned, and brought their dried hides home\nas evidence of the terrible encounter.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... Johnny Blunt\u2019s Courtship\n\n\nAfter the sleigh ride last winter and the slippery tricks served by\nPatty Bean, nobody would suspect Johnny Blunt hankering after women\nagain in a hurry. To hear him rave and take on, and rail out against\nthe whole feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that he\nwould never look at one again, to all eternity.\n\nJohnny did take an oath and swore if he ever meddled, or had any\ndealings with women again--in the sparking line, he meant--he might be\nhung or choked. But swearing off women, and then going into a meeting\nhouse chock full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday\nclothes and clean faces, is like swearing off liquor and going into a\ngrog shop--it\u2019s all smoke.\n\nJohnny held out pretty well for three whole Sundays but on the fourth\nthere were strong symptoms of a change. A chap looking very much like\nJohnny, was seen on his way to the meeting house, with a new patent\nhat on, his head hung by the ears upon a shirt-collar, his cravat had\na pudding in it, and branched out in front into a double-bow-knot. He\ncarried a straight back, and a stiff neck, as a man ought to when he\nhas his best clothes on, and every time he spit, he sprung his body\nforward like a jack-in-the-box, in order to shoot clear of the ruffles.\n\nSquire Jones\u2019 pew was next but two to Johnny\u2019s and when Johnny stood up\nhe naturally looked straight at Sally Jones.\n\nNow Sally had a face not to be grinned at in a fog. She was easy to\nlook at and Johnny succumbed.\n\nSquire Jones had got his evening fire on and set himself to read the\ngreat Bible, when he heard a rap at his door.\n\n\u201cWalk in. Well John, howder do? Git out Pompey!\u201d\n\n\u201cPretty well, I thank you Squire; and how do you do?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, so as to be crawling. Ye ugly beast, will ye hold yer yop! Haul\nup a chair and sit down, John.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you do, Mrs. Jones?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, middlin\u2019. How\u2019s yer marm?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t forget the mat there Mr. Blunt.\u201d\n\nThis put Johnny in mind that he had been off soundings several times in\nthe long muddy lane, and that his boots were in a sweet pickle.\n\nIt was now old Captain Jones\u2019 turn, the grandfather. Being roused from\na doze by the bustle and rattle, he opened both his eyes, at first with\nwonder and astonishment. At last, he began to halloo so loud that you\ncould hear him a mile, for he took it for granted that everybody is\njust as exactly deaf as he is.\n\n\u201cWho is it, I say? Who in the world is it?\u201d\n\nMrs. Jones going close to his ear, screamed out, \u201cIt\u2019s Johnny Blunt!\u201d\n\n\u201cHo, Johnny Blunt! I remember he was one summer at the siege of Boston.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, father; bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that\u2019s\nbeen dead and gone this twenty years!\u201d\n\n\u201cHo! But where does he come from?\u201d\n\n\u201cDaown taown.\u201d\n\n\u201cHo! And what does he foller for a livin\u2019?\u201d\n\nAnd he did not stop asking questions after this sort, till all the\nparticulars of the Blunt family were published and proclaimed by Mrs.\nJones\u2019 screech. Then he sunk back into his doze again.\n\nThe dog stretched himself before one andiron, the cat squat down before\nthe other. Silence came on by degrees, like a calm snowstorm, till\nnothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping time with a\nsappy yellow birch forestick. Sally sat up prim as if she were pinned\nto the chairback, her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her\neyes looking straight into the fire.\n\nFor Johnny\u2019s part he sat looking very much like a fool. The more he\ntried to say something, the more his tongue stuck fast. He put his\nright leg over his left, and said \u201cHem!\u201d Then he changed, and put the\nleft over the right. It was no use, the silence kept coming thicker and\nthicker. Drops of sweat began to crawl all over him. He got his eye\nupon his hat, hanging on a peg by the door, and then he eyed the door.\nAt this moment, the old Captain all at once sung out:\n\n\u201cJohnny Blunt!\u201d\n\nIt sounded like a clap of thunder and Johnny started right up on end.\n\n\u201cJohnny Blunt, you\u2019ll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did,\nif you live to the age of Methuselah. He would toss up drumsticks, and\nwhile it was wheelin\u2019 in the air, turn twice around, and then ketch it\nas it come down, without losin\u2019 a stroke in the tune. What d\u2019ye think\nof that, ha? But scull your chair round close alongside er me, so you\ncan hear. Now what have you come arter?\u201d\n\n\u201cI arter? Oh, jist takin\u2019 a walk. Pleasant walkin\u2019. I guess I mean,\njist to see how ye all do.\u201d\n\n\u201cHo, that\u2019s another lie! You\u2019ve come a courtin, Johnny Blunt, and\nyou\u2019re a\u2019ter our Sal. Say, now, do you want to marry, or only to court?\u201d\n\nThis was a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump, and landed in the\nmiddle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till\nthe old man, after laughing himself breathless, was put to bed.\n\nThen came apples and cider, and the ice being broke, plenty of chat\nwith Mammy Jones about the minister and the \u201csarmon.\u201d\n\nAt last, Mrs. Jones lighted t\u2019other candle, and after charging Sally to\nlook well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered\nup his shoes and stockings and followed.\n\nSally and Johnny were left sitting a good yard apart. For fear of\ngetting tongue-tied again, Johnny set right in with a steady stream of\ntalk. He told her all the particulars about the weather that was past,\nand also made some pretty \u2019cute guesses at what it was like to be in\nthe future. Johnny gave a gentle hitch to his chair until finally he\nplanted himself fast by Sally\u2019s side.\n\n\u201cI swow, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome today, that I wanted to\neat you up!\u201d\n\n\u201cPshaw! Get along with you,\u201d said she.\n\nJohnny\u2019s hand had crept along, somehow, upon its fingers, and began to\nscrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home with a desperate jerk.\nTry it again--no better luck.\n\n\u201cWhy, Miss Jones, you\u2019re gettin\u2019 upstroperlous; a little old maidish, I\nguess.\u201d\n\n\u201cHands off is fair play, Mr. Blunt.\u201d\n\nJohnny finally managed not only to get hold of Sally\u2019s hand but managed\nto slip his arm around her waist. But not satisfied with this he began\nto go poking out his lips for a kiss. But he rued it for Sally fetched\nhim a slap in the face, that made him see stars, and set his ears to\nringing like a brass kettle, for a quarter of an hour.\n\n\u201cAh, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha\u2019 done with it, now?\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t, so there, nor tech to--\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll take it whether or no.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo it, if you dare!\u201d\n\nHow a bus will crack of a still, frosty night! Mrs. Jones was about\nhalfway between asleep and awake.\n\n\u201cThere goes my yeast bottle,\u201d says she to herself, \u201cBurst into twenty\nhundred pieces; and my bread is all dough again.\u201d\n\nThe upshot of the matter is that Johnny fell in love with Sally Jones,\nhead over ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds him rapping\nat Squire Jones\u2019 door; and twenty times has he been within a hair\u2019s\nbreadth of popping the question. But now Johnny has made a final\nresolve. If he lives till next Sunday night, and doesn\u2019t get choked in\nthe trial, Sally Jones will hear thunder.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Trusting Maiden\n\n\nMargery Smith of Chathamport was thrilled and impressed when John\nAtwood, a respected widower, asked her to be his second wife.\nNevertheless, being slightly younger than Widower Atwood, Margery\ndemurred for quite some time before consenting to be his wife. Before\nshe finally said yes, the widower carried on an extensive courtship\nand it was said that his promise of building a new house for his bride\nfinally convinced her in his favour.\n\nThe trusting maiden waited until the knot had been tied before raising\nthe question of the promised new house, only to be met with John\u2019s\nreply of \u201cOh, that was jest courtin\u2019 talk, Margy.\u201d But although he\nshattered love\u2019s young dream in that respect, he did build a small\naddition on to the old house. Margy spent the rest of her life in that\nhot ell of a kitchen, and never became mistress of a new house.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \u201cWe were conscious only of hunger, heat and thirst.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n  ... Shipwrecked\n\n\nOn yellowed, tissue-thin paper, bound in leather, and entitled simply\n\u201cJournal,\u201d was found an entry which matches all the adventure stories\nof shipwrecked men ever told. Its authenticity can only be judged by\nthe excerpt which follows:\n\nHerein the reader, if there be any, will find the story of my most\nharrowing experience at sea. It is only by the Grace of God Almighty\nthat I am alive this day to record it thus.\n\nI was twenty years old when I shipped out from Boston on a journey\nto the East Indies. She was a good ship, my fellow crew members were\ncapable, congenial men, many of whom I had sailed with in the past. Our\ncaptain had earned our respect even in the few short days we had been\nacquainted with him. All hands and officers were convinced that clear\nsailing and a profitable journey lay before all.\n\nI cannot record here in a vivid enough manner, my impressions during\nthe first three weeks of our sailing. The weather was fair and\nmild, good winds had prevailed constantly; the life aboard ship was\nespecially pleasant. There was no need for any such feeling as I\nhad found myself indulging in for several days. But it nevertheless\nprevailed. Perhaps all I can coherently say is that I had a vague\nunrest, a mind-plaguing thought constantly with me, like the shadow of\nsome dark cloud over my being. This feeling brought with it the still,\nsubconscious impression of disaster and imminent death which I could\nnot, try as I would, shake off. I said nothing to my mates about this\nfeeling. They would perhaps have scoffed at me--if not, my revealing\nof such an impression would only serve to disturb the uncommonly\nsmooth-running life of our close existence on the lonely seas.\n\nIt was on a calm, uneventful afternoon, while all hands were engaged\nin dilatory activities of repair and small duties, that this feeling\nreached its highest peak. I felt a strange compulsion to plunge into\nimmediate intense activity, for my fears were mounting by the minute,\nand, in my youthful mind, I felt vaguely ashamed. I had just left my\npost by the starboard boat, where I had been engaged in lashing down\nsome canvassing, when I glanced up to see the lookout in the crow\u2019s\nnest peering intently out to sea. I knew somehow that my fear was about\nto materialize. And verily, a moment later, the call came from the\nnest, \u201cShip on far port horizon ho! She bears the Jolly Roger!\u201d\n\nThe action over our entire ship was so instant in contrast to the\nalmost sluggish movements of the minute before that it was as if a\npainting had suddenly sprung into life, each of its immobile figures\nleaping into definite motion. We clapped on every sail, but the pirate\nship was on us before we could get up enough sail to escape. They sent\na shot straight through our rigging.\n\nThe happenings of the next hour remain in my mind only as a confused\njumble of shouts, clashing swords, and hand to hand combat. The pirate\ncrew were a determined and bloodthirsty lot, not content to merely take\nover our monetary possessions. They outnumbered us and overpowered us,\ndeliberately destroying and ravaging everything upon which they could\nlay their hands.\n\nThey seemed at last content with what damage they had wrought. The\nburly pirate captain ordered us to abandon our ship, which he and his\nmen then set afire. Before the fire had reached the hold, what few of\nour number were left managed to reach some supplies, and with those few\nessentials, we rowed away. I will never forget the frustrated agony in\nmy soul as I watched our valiant ship, strewn with the bodies of our\ngallant captain and mates, burn to a charred skeleton, and sink slowly\nbeneath the waters....\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThere were two lifeboats, lost and tiny as pea pods on a pond, drifting\nin lone aimlessness on the sea. There were eight of us, including\nmyself, in one boat, and five in the other. We saw the other boat,\nwhich we could not reach because of the waves, drift farther and\nfarther away. At last, after it had been hidden from our sight by a\nmonstrous wave, we saw it again, capsized. We tried valiantly to reach\nthose who were floundering in the sea. It was hopeless. One by one they\nsank beneath the surface, lost forever in the smothering embrace of the\nsea.\n\nFor a day and a night, the fierce winds and huge waves crashed against\nour small craft, and I cannot explain today why we did not meet the\nsame fate as had our unfortunate comrades in the other boat. Upon the\nsecond day, the rolling sea was changed to a flat, millpond surface,\nand the sun was unbearably hot. We had managed to bring with us only\nfour bottles of water, enough to last but a few days. We did not live,\nwe merely existed. I felt the gnawing, piercing pangs of thirst and\nhunger congest and constrict my being. Within fourteen days, four of\nour number had died of thirst, and there were three men besides myself\nleft, starving.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMy hands, when I reached up to touch my burned, bearded face, were\ntrembling like a man beset with palsy. My eyes, I knew, were like my\ncomrades\u2019, empty, vacant, hopeless. I was conscious only of a searing\nache over my entirety, and my mind was skipping and sliding over\ndisjointed thoughts. We looked at each other, and still did not see;\nwe were conscious only of hunger and heat and thirst. When we spoke,\nit was as if in a dream. Jackson had managed to hook a small fish, but\nhad not the strength to pull it into the boat. I believe we realized\nthe helplessness of our plight, and began at that moment of realization\nto get crazed. It was not long before we began to talk of drawing lots\nto see which of us should be killed to provide food for the others.\nThe thought is horrible and distasteful now, as I sit with my belly\nfull of good warm food, but then the thought meant only one thing--the\nlessening of the most terrible of pains--Hunger.\n\nWe resisted this impulse as long as humanly possible. But at last the\ntime came when we must destroy one of our number, or fall upon each\nother like crazed wolves. We cast lots, and it fell upon me to be the\nvictim. I prepared to die so that others might live.\n\nI cannot give my reader any searing recollection of faith or impression\nthat come to a man about to die, for I had none. I knew only that my\nbreast was bared, and that one of my mates, with arm raised, was about\nto plunge his knife into my vitals. I believe that I wanted to die.\nBut the shining knife did not come sweeping down, for at that moment,\nwe heard a gunshot in the distance, and, looking in the direction from\nwhich the sound came, saw a white sail on the horizon.\n\nThis ship had seen our distress signal--my own shirt which hung from a\npropped up oar--and had fired a shot to let us know we had been seen.\nDeath, under such horrible circumstances, breathes hotly down on few\nmen.\n\nI lived to see the pirate captain who had been the cause of our agony\nhanged from his own yardarm in the harbor of Calcutta.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Enchanted Mouse\n\n\nIn the early days of Eastham, when the menfolk were concerned with the\nbusiness of the sea, there lived a Captain Jed Knowles and his young,\nlovely, and devoted bride. The captain was a fine figure of a man. Mrs.\nKnowles, for all her beauty and sweet womanliness, was strange indeed,\nfor they said that she had strange supernatural powers.\n\nMrs. Knowles was devoted to her sailing husband, and, as did many of\nold time Cape wives, sailed with him on several of his voyages. When\nlove was young, and absence unbearable, Captain Knowles liked to have\nhis wife along with him, but the objections of the crew, who, according\nto the best sea superstition, believed that a woman aboard was bad\nluck, soon added to his misgivings about taking her along. Besides,\ntime was not kind to the temper of Mrs. Knowles, and she soon became\nnot a pleasure to have along, but rather a bother. The captain soon\ndecided that such companion voyages must cease.\n\nFor several voyages now, Captain Knowles, under great opposition and\nargument from his good wife, had succeeded in sailing without her.\n\nOn one occasion, however, when the captain was to leave for an\nextensive voyage, his wife once more requested that she be allowed\nto accompany him. The answer was a firm negative, and much to the\ncaptain\u2019s surprise and delight, Mrs. Knowles did not demur, and offered\nno argument to his decision. And this quick change about fooled the\nunsuspecting seaman, for he underestimated the power of a woman,\nespecially the strange power of his own wife.\n\nOn the day of departure, Mrs. Knowles bade her husband a fond goodbye\nat the door of their home. The captain went down to the docks, weighed\nanchor, and was on his way. He did not know, however, that a tiny mouse\nhad followed him aboard close at his heels.\n\nThree days out at sea, the captain got a report from the cook that\ncheese and other like supplies were being nibbled upon by what was\ncertainly a mouse. The captain, who prided himself on a clean and\nrodent-free ship, directed him to set poison for the scavenger, and\nthought no more of the matter.\n\nBut the captain did not rest easy. His sleep was disturbed upon many\noccasions by a rustling, scampering noise in his cabin. When he arose\nand lit his lamp, he was stunned to see, sitting on the foot of his\nbunk, a tiny mouse, seemingly unafraid and serene, looking straight at\nhim. This happened night after night, and the captain became quite fond\nof the little creature. But when upon one occasion, he found that the\nmouse had eaten up a midnight supper, and gnawed upon his log book, as\nwell as starting to scamper up and down the bed while the captain was\nasleep, he changed his mind. Taking up his whip, he struck the little\nmouse with it, killing it, and tossed it out of his porthole.\n\nWhen the captain returned home, he opened the door to find his wife\ndead on the floor in a pool of sea water with the mark of a whiplash\nacross her face.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... Ole Bill Hardy\n\n\nCal\u2019late I never seed the likes of Ole Bill Hardy. Yep--he was a\nhumdinger alrite. Thar were a heap of shrewd peddlers \u2019round about in\nmy day, young feller, and b\u2019lieve me, they were the cagiest bunch of\nfellers y\u2019 ever see. Y\u2019 had ter watch yer step when y\u2019 were bargainin\u2019\nwithum, yesseree sir, else ye\u2019d find yerself holdin\u2019 the shy end of the\nstick. But the feller that uster drive the sharpest dickers was Ole\nBill Hardy. \u2019Twa\u2019nt many wimmin, or men folks either, \u2019round here that\nhadn\u2019t been spliced at one time or nuther by Ole Bill.\n\nI \u2019member one time in partic\u2019lar--happened right here in the village,\nit did. \u2019Twas quite a spell ago, when you were no more than a twinkle\nin the divil\u2019s eye. Wal, seems the folks \u2019round here were gittin\u2019\nsome purty high flyin\u2019 idees. Th\u2019 town had a hearse--and a durn good\none too--that\u2019d bin used for buryin\u2019s for near thuty years. And some\nuv these folks begun t\u2019 think that mebbee the old mariah \u2019twa\u2019nt quite\ntoney enuff for \u2019em, so they sashayed over to town meetin\u2019 and voted to\nbuy a new one.\n\nOne day Ole Bill was a\u2019 drivin\u2019 by the old hearse house. Fust S\u2019lectman\nBijah Gibbs was loafin\u2019 round the doorway and spied Bill a\u2019comin\u2019.\nThought he\u2019d see ifen he could get Ole Bill\u2019s goat. He hollered out,\n\u201cSay thar, Bill, what\u2019ll y\u2019 give us fer the old hearse?\u201d But Bill\ndidn\u2019t bite. He jest looked Bijah rite in th\u2019 eye and said, \u201cWal, I\ndunno. Don\u2019t seem rightly that yer ought ter sell the mariah. Some\nfolks in town ain\u2019t even had a chanct ter ride in it yit. But if ye be\nof a mind ter sell it, dunnor ifen I might give five dollars fer it.\u201d\nAnd sure nuff, Bill bought the old hearse, hitched it onter hind end of\nhis wagon and druv off.\n\nHe wuz drivin\u2019 along, proud as yer please, when he passed Miz Tizra\nSmall. Miz Small was alus collectin\u2019 and buyin\u2019 old stuff--antiques,\nshe called \u2019em. Ole Bill pulled up near her and hollers, \u201cHere\u2019s nuther\nantique for ye, Miz Small.\u201d Miz Small didn\u2019t think much of the hearse\nhitched onto the hind end of his wagon. She wuz mad as a wet hen. \u201cShet\nup, you old fool,\u201d she says, and sallied off down the street. Bill jest\nkinda chuckled.\n\nWal the next thing y\u2019 know, Ole Bill was using the old hearse for a\npeddler cart, and the women folk were so scandalized they got up a\nmeetin\u2019 to complain about it. Seems they thought it kinda improper that\nthe hearse thetud carried their mothers and fathers to the grave was\nbein\u2019 used to cart old brooms and tinware. So they raised twenty-five\ndollars and bought it back from Ole Bill. He didn\u2019t care a mite. He\u2019d\nmade twenty dollars. The old hearse was put back in the hearse house,\nand stayed there \u2019til it rotted apart.\n\n\u2019Member nuther time too. Evryone knew Ole Bill would sell anythin\u2019. One\nday he was drivin\u2019 along and met two young scalawags who thought they\u2019d\nhave a bit o\u2019 fun with him. They up an\u2019 asked him what he\u2019d take for\nthe pants he was wearin\u2019. \u201cTwo dollars,\u201d says Bill, \u2019thout winkin\u2019 an\neyelash. And durned if he didn\u2019t peel \u2019em right off and hand \u2019em over\nto the two young fellers, who were kinda taken back, I can tell ye.\n\u201cGeeyap,\u201d says Bill, and off he druv down the road, all wrapped up in\nan ole hoss blanket.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... How Sophie\n      Got A Husband\n\n\nSometimes a good deed done on the spur of the moment by a well-meaning\nphilanthropist can do more harm than good, and lead to exceedingly\ncomical and unexpected complications. For instance, take the case of\nSquire Nickerson of Orleans, who never knew the repercussions that\nresulted from a spontaneous act of kindliness to two strangers.\n\nFirst of all, let me introduce the principals in this little drama:\nSquire Nickerson, well-to-do, prominent, kindly; a school marm from\nBoston whom we shall call Sophie, spinster, acid tongued, parched,\nand taken to drinking lemon juice, which probably accounted for her\nparchment-like appearance; and Seth, prominent, well-liked and friendly\nas the Squire, but in very different circles. To be blunt, Seth was an\namiable old reprobate. Good people, all of them, but when they were\nthrown together, they were stirred around in the darndest stew you ever\nheard of.\n\nSquire Nickerson was driving, one night long enough ago so we can\nspare embarrassment to those involved, back from a business meeting in\nHyannis. The road from Hyannis to Orleans on the backside route is, and\nwas then, winding and dark. Squire Nickerson was dozing in the back\nof his carriage when he was bumped from his seat by its sudden stop.\nLooking around, he saw that he was halted not at his home, but in the\ndip bend of the road by Pleasant Bay.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong Silas?\u201d he asked his driver.\n\n\u201cWell, sir,\u201d replied Silas puzzledly, \u201cThere seems to be someone lying\nsmack in the middle of the road!\u201d\n\nUpon examination, the someone proved to be a rather battered elderly\ngentleman of indeterminate age, and this gentleman was sound, dead,\nabsolutely asleep in the middle of the road. With a few suspicious\nsniffs, the Squire and Silas determined with surprise that the man was\nin a state not of intoxication, but of unusual fatigue.\n\n\u201cPick him up, Si, and put him in the carriage.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Sir--\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the carriage, Si. We can leave him at the Inn, poor fellow. It\u2019s a\ndamp night, and surely in this state he can do us no harm.\u201d\n\nAnd so the unsuspecting somnambulist was transported from the road to a\nfine carriage.\n\nThe Squire\u2019s carriage, with its new occupant, had not rolled down the\nroad more than a few paces, when it stopped again.\n\n\u201cI say, Sir. This \u2019eres a thing!\u201d said Silas. \u201cThere \u2019pears to be a\nlady, sir, at the side of the road!\u201d\n\n\u201cA lady? At the side of the road? Walking--why, no, she\u2019s asleep, too!\u201d\ncried the Squire, peering out of the carriage window. \u201cWhy this poor\nold couple! Probably didn\u2019t have the coppers to pay for carriage to\ntheir destination, meant to camp out tonight, and were separated in the\nfog! We\u2019ll bring both these poor souls to the Inn.\u201d And so they did.\n\nSquire Nickerson made suitable arrangements for food and lodging at\nthe Inn. The old gentleman and lady were put to bed in a fine room,\nand orders left by the Squire to give them a good breakfast. Leaving\nextra money with the innkeeper for the two sleepers, and brimming over\nwith self-satisfaction of a good deed well done, Squire Nickerson\ndrove to his home, leaving his newly acquired but unconscious friends\nsnoring peacefully side by side, and never dreaming that there was a\npossibility that he had joined a pair whom convention and law had not\nmade one.\n\nThe fact was, the old man and the old woman were perfect strangers to\none another, and their being found in similar situations was purely\ncoincidental. Seth, who by now you know was the old gentleman in\nquestion, was very accustomed to spending the night wherever he might\nbe, and Sophie, the lady in the picture, traveling by stage from\nBoston, had become annoyed and frightened at the antics of a rather\ntipply driver, and under the impression that it was but a few short\nmiles to Orleans, had left the stage and started to walk. When found by\nthe Squire, she had just stopped at the side of the road to rest, and\nhad fallen into a deep and sound sleep.\n\nAnd so passed the night. The newly united pair snored and wheezed\npeacefully beside one another until the early sunlight broke into the\nroom to disclose the shocking and amazing situation. Sophie was the\nfirst to awake, stirred from sleep by a sound she had never heard\nbefore--that of a man snoring.\n\nImagine the consternation of the proper spinster when she awoke to\nfind herself side by side in a strange bed with a man! Where she was,\nor how she got there, she didn\u2019t know. It was clear that she was in\nbed with a man, and that was an event that had never happened to her\nbefore, and undoubtedly never would. She let out a scream that would\nwake the dead. Old Seth mumbled in his sleep, opened one eye, and\nthen sat bolt upright in bed, staring at Sophie, who, cowering at the\nbed post, with purple face and tight shut eyes, screamed with the\ncontinuous wail of a fire siren. First shock turned to dumb amazement.\nSophie stopped her caterwauling and turned her head toward Seth, who\nby now fully awake, sat frozen with apprehension. She sat bolt upright\non one side of the bed, he on the other and, with eyes riveted on one\nanother, and there they sat, transfixed with amazement and shock.\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d began Seth, remembering his manners even in a situation such\nas this one, \u201cMy name is--\u201d\n\n\u201cMake me an honest woman, you wretch!\u201d cried Sophie, interrupting Seth\nloudly. It had at last struck her that this was some monster of a man\nwho had succeeded in some horrible design upon her honor. \u201cMake me an\nhonest woman, villain that you are, or I will be the death of you!\u201d\n\nMeanwhile, attracted by Sophie\u2019s first screams, the other occupants of\nthe Inn were peeping in at the door where they saw this amazing scene:\n\nAn elderly lady, keeping up a continuous stream of gesticulations,\nvindictive assertions and loud pleas for aid, was busily dressing\nherself more suitably for a meeting with a stranger. And in bed,\ncowering and trembling, and attempting to interject the lady\u2019s hollers,\nan old man valiantly denied any knowledge of what had occurred.\n\nThe Innkeeper at last interfered with the authority of his station. On\ninquiry, it was found that no breach had been made that could not be\neasily repaired. Even when told the true story, Sophie would not keep\nstill. The old gentleman, Seth, was then asked if he had any objections\nto taking his fair bedfellow for a helpmate during the remainder of\nthis life. What else could he do? He stammered out his consent as well\nas he could, the enraged virgin smoothed down her anger and ruffled\nfeathers, since satisfaction had been made to her injured honor. The\nbargain was made, a gay but strained pre-nuptial breakfast was held\nat the Inn, and the happy pair were bundled off to church, amidst the\nlaughing shouts of the strange bridal party and uninvited guests. There\nthe parson waited to make good a match too precipitously formed by the\ncharitable Squire who never knew the outcome of his good deed.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Orleans Lamplighter\n\n\nAt Rock Harbor lived the old lamplighter of Orleans, Josh Northrup, who\ntook the job when the good ladies of the church--The Sewing Circle and\nFemale Samaritan Society--organized the Orleans Street Lighting Club.\n\nFor years Josh was a familiar figure, making his rounds up and down\nthe streets with his ladder, oil, and matches. Josh listened with a\nphilosophical nod to all the complaints of the townsfolk, and was often\nheard to sigh:\n\n\u201cI\u2019d start on one end of my beat quite a while before dark and folks\naround there would get all set up by the spectacle of me burning oil\nbefore sundown. By the time I reached the other end, it was after dark,\nand durned if the fools down that end didn\u2019t kick cuz they weren\u2019t\ngetting their money\u2019s worth.\u201d\n\nThe lamplighter\u2019s set of rules decreed that the lights were not to be\nlit on what the calendar called a \u201cmoonlight night\u201d whether the moon\ncould be seen or not. Thus the most dangerous time to be strolling\nalong the streets was apt to be on a scheduled moonlight night, for\nJosh always stuck religiously to the calendar.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Giant of\n      Longnook Valley\n\n\nTruro is on that part of the narrow land that sweeps inward at the\ncrook of the Cape\u2019s long arm to form Provincetown. Here where the scrub\npines grow tough and scrawny, and the Truro Hills roll from backside to\nbayside tangled with a mesh-work of clinging bayberry, wild blueberry,\nsturdy beach plum, and coarse hog cranberry, is Long Nook Valley, a\ndeep hewn wedge carved in the rugged face of the lower Cape ... a\nvalley that stretches from the broad waters of the Atlantic on one side\nof Cape Cod to the deep half-moon waters of Cape Cod Bay on the other.\nStraight through the Truro Hills goes Long Nook Valley. The ancient sun\nshines down on a place as old as Time, a place primitive, wild, and\nstrangely beautiful. From the deep floor of the valley, the hills rise\nto the sky, silhouetted with the bony-fingered scrub pines. In this\ntime-scarred gouge through the hills, legends could well have started,\nand superstition and folklore have their ancient origin.\n\nThe formation of Long Nook Valley is a legend itself and concerns\nMeloof, a giant legendary figure who lived in the Cape region even\nbefore the great glacier came down from the north to chew deep paths in\nthe surface of the earth ... when this earth was filled with mysterious\nmists and vapours, rising from a land and sea still in a state of flux\nand yet unformed.\n\nWith arms as long and mammoth as the towering elms of Yarmouth, and\nlegs packed with resilient strength of the mast of a great schooner,\nwith a chest as huge and powerful as the ancient Hercules, Meloof\nwas no mortal man. His voice could bring the wild rains down from\nthe skies, his whisper could churn the waters of the sea into white\nfoam. Meloof could stand in the deepest waters of Cape Cod Bay, and\nby stretching out his arms, touch with one fingertip what is now\nProvincetown, and with the other, what is now Orleans.\n\nWhen Meloof got into his fishing craft, the waters all along the Cape\nshores rose as if in swift high tide. This boat was immense, its\nsides thick and massive, its length enough to hold even the giant\u2019s\ntremendously long legs, gargantuan frame, and seven league boots. Out\nin the wide, free expanse of the Atlantic, in the mist and haze, went\nMeloof for a day of fishing. Where the hot sun shot through the steams\nand vapours, Meloof dropped anchor. He lay back in his boat, holding\nin his great hands his fish pole, made from the top of a 200 foot pine\ntree. These huge trees grew in great profusion at one time over the\nCape, until a tidal wave came and stripped the lower Cape of every\nliving thing, leaving in its wake the dwarfed, grotesquely scrawny pine\ntrees now found there. Meloof lolled about on the waters, dreaming\ngiant dreams, his line slack in his hands.\n\nMeloof was shaken from his lethargy! The fishing line was a lashing\nwhip in his hands! The pole bent and arched into the water like the\ntautly drawn bow of an Indian. It quivered and trembled. It snapped up\nand down. It swished to and fro in the air. Meloof\u2019s shoulders were\nwrenched with the sudden pull at the line, and his boat was nearly\ncapsized by the tremendous snap of the line--suddenly, he knew what lay\nat the end! The giant, the prize of the deep waters that Meloof had\ntime and again stalked and hunted, but without success.\n\nIn one swift movement, Meloof uncoiled his huge frame and sprang to his\nfeet, bracing them hard against the sides of the boat. His nostrils\ndilated, and his eyes were wild and eager with the anticipation of a\nbattle with an adversary worthy of his own size and strength. Meloof\u2019s\nmuscles bulged like the sides of a water cask. Blue rope veins throbbed\nin his temples. Sweat poured down his massive back, and the cords in\nhis huge powerful wrists and hands stood out like hawser lines. With a\ngreat bellow, Meloof threw back his head and braced himself more firmly\nagainst the furious strain of the battle.\n\nAs abruptly as it had started, the tight drawn tension of the line\nslackened. Then, in another instant, the line sprang taut and alive\nwhen the creature at the end of Meloof\u2019s line propelled itself out of\nthe water and into the air several hundred feet. A giant codfish, with\nscales as large and thick as oversize barn shingles, eyes as big and\nbulging as washtubs, and a gaping slash of mouth as wide as a cave,\ntwisted and turned in the air. A frenzied monster of the dark waters,\nthe giant cod thrashed about in an effort to escape.\n\nBack and forth raced the giant cod. Blue calm waters churned white and\nangry. Breakers house-high piled up on the shores. The whiplash of the\nline through the water, the rushing of the boat back and forth, made\nmountainous waves and whipped the wind to gale force. The cod broke\nsurface, and then sounded the depths again. Then up-up- into the air\nuntil Meloof\u2019s line was almost perpendicular to the water. No rearing\nstallion of the gods and his deity rider had such a battle. The victory\nwould go to the wiliest strategist, and this the cod seemed to sense,\nfor, with its eyes red with fear and anger, its fins quivering with the\nstrain of battle, it leapt into the air once more, and then plunged\ninto the water, sounding bottom. There it pivoted about and headed\nstraight for land. The water foamed white from the speed of the cod\u2019s\ncourse, and, behind him, fanned out in an arc as it was cleaved by the\nbow of Meloof\u2019s boat.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe bullet-like course which sped Meloof and his craft straight towards\nshore was perhaps more terrible than the actual battle in the ocean.\nThe shore loomed bigger ahead of him, but still Meloof held fast. His\ntremendous strength was sapped from the strain of the battle, but he\nstill had a giant\u2019s determination to conquer. With a last surge of\nstrength, the cod ceased its twisting, turning, gyrations and plowed\nthrough the shallow waters of the shore, up and over the beach, and\nstraight into the Hills of Truro, dragging Meloof and his boat behind\nhim!\n\nRocks and boulder formations cracked and split, hurled up and aside\nlike pebbles. The sky was dark with flying particles of sand and earth.\nRight across the Cape from Atlantic to Bay furrowed the frenzied cod\nand its tenacious captor, plowing and ripping a deep scar through the\nhills!\n\nAnd thus was formed Long Nook Valley in Truro on Cape Cod. Traces of\nthe giant cod are found even today in the form of fish scales as large\nas barn shingles. Some say that these fish scales are really pieces of\nmica, left by the great glacier movement down from the north, but Cape\nCodders know better. They are the petrified scales of the legendary\ngiant cod that hauled Meloof and his boat straight across the Cape\nthrough the hills of Truro, forming Long Nook Valley.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... Cupid and the\n      Tree Warden\n\n\nA portly Cape Codder, while in the midst of his political campaign for\nthe position of local tree warden, strolled one evening into a tavern\nin search of relaxation and rest from his campaigning. Nodding affably\nto the various customers, he noticed among those present a man who was\nobviously there for a long and festive evening. This brought to mind\nthe intriguing thought that the lady with whom the convivial gentleman\nwas then \u201ckeeping company\u201d would probably be at home alone and in a\nmood to welcome visitors. Our hero, not one to let such a promising\nopportunity pass him by, made a snap decision and hied himself off to\nthe lady\u2019s house. So Cupid smiled, but, in the offing, trouble brewed.\n\nThe other gentleman observed the approach and quick retreat of the\npolitical Lothario, became suspicious, and he too left the tavern, only\na scant half hour after the departure of his rival. Both male pride and\nindignation were aroused when he arrived at the lady\u2019s home, for there\nhe found the aspiring town official clad only in his underwear, which\neven on Cape Cod is not considered correct attire for a social visit.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nStunned by this disregard of convention, the lady\u2019s rather beery\nprotector seized the visitor by the neck and seat of his union suit,\nand hove him in the direction of the front door.\n\nNow no man likes to walk down Main Street in his underwear on a sharp\nJanuary night. The tree warden candidate was no exception. He did not\ndepart meekly. He did in fact, give forceful and valiant opposition\nto the attack of his enraged and indignant adversary. It was quite a\nbattle, and caused a riotous commotion and an alarming collapse of\nfurniture. After a mighty tussle, the defender of the weaker sex and\nconvention found himself the victor, and the politician found himself\nout on his ear--and in his underwear--in the cold night.\n\nBut at this moment of victory, the local constabulary forces, who\nhad been called by the lady in question, arrived on the scene. As\nthe minion of the law marched away with the wildly gesticulating and\nindignant attacker, the underwear-clad politician, who was brushing\ntwigs and snow off his union suit, called out, \u201cHi boys! Don\u2019t forget\nI\u2019m running for tree warden!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  ... The Singing Fish of\n     Monomoy Point\n\n  _In a small, musty, canvas bound book, unopened for years, was found\n  a story of such beauty and wonder that it escapes the imagination.\n  Each whisper of the turning pages which sent puffs of memory-filled\n  dust into the air, spoke of a day long ago, when a young man found an\n  island Paradise. The story in the ancient journal was dedicated to\n  the writer\u2019s wife, Jessie, and is presented as a possible solution to\n  the strange humming sounds heard now and again off Monomoy Point in\n  Chatham on Cape Cod._\n\n\nIt was long ago, when I was young and adventurous, and on one of my\nfirst important sailings, that this amazing thing occurred. We were\nbound for the Indies, and while rounding Cape Horn, ran full into a\nswift and violent storm that was unexplainable. For one moment, the\nwaters were as calmly blue as those of Scargo Lake in Dennis on a\nclear summer day, and the next, they were scowling, angry, and black.\nThe sky shook its fist at our ship and sent down to us such winds and\nfierce rains as I have never seen before. All about us was billowing,\nunpenetrable gray, and all hands felt the atmosphere alive with some\nstrange force. Our navigation equipment seemed frozen, and our rudder\nwas cracked by the mountainous waves that crashed against our ship. We\nlived in darkness, and floundered around in that sea of gray for five\nterrible days. At the end of the fifth day, a calm, a stillness came,\nas suddenly as the attacking storm, and this silence seemed the more\nterrible because of its contrast with the wild gray days through which\nwe had just passed.\n\nAll hands came above, and though none spoke a word, I knew that a\nstrange fear gripped the heart of each of my shipmates. I am not a poet\nor a man of letters, and my words, however carefully written here,\ncould not adequately describe the scene which met our eyes.\n\nWe found ourselves floating in the midst of a strange, dead sea from\nwhich we could not escape. I thought at first that it might be Sargaso\nSea, for the waters were filled with weird strands of sea plant life,\nwith roots as big as boulders, but common sense and knowledge of the\nmap made that impossible. The sea on which we drifted was a sea of\npowerful currents, each eddying in opposite directions. The water,\nso clear we could see the smooth white bottom 50 fathoms below, was a\ncurious turquoise, streaked with brightest greens and pinks. All around\nus were the listing, vacant skeletons of ships that had found their\nunexplainable way here before us. Monstrous fish, and fish no larger\nthan a hair, swam through the waters. These fish were gold, green,\nblue, and red; striped, streaked, and dotted with the most amazing\npanorama of colors. Strange hued birds with weird calls flew overhead,\nand over all this amazing scene there was an intense, stifling silence.\n\nWe drifted about under the hand of the changing currents for six weeks,\nand lived from the waters around us. Some of the sea vegetation, when\npulled up, proved to be clean and sweetly edible, and the strange,\nbright colored fish were easily caught. During this period, although\nwe were well fed, and temporarily safe, we grew restless, and\nconflictions sprang up at every turn. For however well fed and kept\na man may be, the fear of the unknown, and a wondering about when he\nwill see familiar land and beloved faces, keeps him forever unhappy\nand discontent. Moreover, we were all consumed with the most intense\ncuriosity about our strange surroundings. And always in our minds and\nbefore our eyes were the bare hulks of the other ships, caught in the\nsea, which we all hoped would not prove to be prophetic to us.\n\nWe had, at the end of our six weeks of drifting, sunk so low in our\nspirits, and become so apathetic about our situation, that we became\nlax in our shipboard duties. As the days dragged by, we assigned one\nwatch for the long nights, and another for the daylight hours. I am\nsure that if these men had been watched, they would have been observed\ndozing at their posts, for none of us expected anything unusual to\nhappen, and by this time moved in that aimless lethargy of men without\naim or purpose.\n\nIt was on the morning of what I presumed to be the 42nd day of our\ndrifting, that a frenzied shout from the night watch jolted us from\nour bunks. Land had been sighted, and all hands, laughing and shouting\nlike men freed from long imprisonment, sprang to work, long neglected,\nto reach this land. But each time we came close enough to use the\nsmall landing boats, the land seemed to move away from us, until at\nlast we found that the land sighted was a cluster of many sized and\nshaped floating islands, the largest of which became our goal. These\nislands moved on the conflicting currents, and seemed forever out of\nour reach. Finally, at the close of four days of chasing the island,\nwe were caught up on a current that crossed with that of the largest,\nand it was there, on a strange, disjointed piece of land, on a strange,\ncut-off sea, that we found what seemed to all of us to be our dream of\nParadise.\n\nThe island was verdantly green, overflowing with exotic flowers,\nand huge graceful trees which bore sweet succulent fruit. A heavy,\njasmine-sweet scent was in the gentle winds. Here was a land of such\nincredible beauty and serenity that I knew somehow no men had ever been\nthere before. Small, spring-fed streams veined over the island, and the\nwater from these streams was like the coolest nectar. The days were\nalways full of sunshine, and the sky a shimmering blue, but for all\nthat sun, the days were never more than comfortably warm. The island\nnights were nights of incredible beauty. The waters shone with a\nthousand, a million diamonds of phosphorus, the night air was cool and\nsweet, and the stars above seemed close enough to pluck from the sky.\nDay and night, the peace and serenity none of us had ever experienced\nbefore was over all, and I yearn for that serenity to this day. There\nis always, I believe now, that feeling over those wonders of Nature\nuntouched by Man.\n\nPerhaps it was because they had lived so long in strangeness and\nuncertainty that they had become apathetic, or perhaps it was because\nthey had found on this island Paradise the very essence of their hidden\ndream of peace and beauty--whatever the reason, the men who had been\nmy companions and shipmates all through these amazing happenings, now\nseemed content to loll beneath the palm trees, swim in the clear,\nwarm water, or fish from the canoes which they had fashioned. I heard\nno mention of returning to Cape Cod, nor saw any desire nor yearning\nfor familiar faces and home land. We had established, in a small\nsheltered cove at the south of the island where we had first landed,\nour headquarters. Here we had everything necessary for living. A small\nstream was close at hand, the sea was at our doorstep, and the cove\nwas abundant with the coconut trees, the tropical fruit bushes, and a\nplentiful amount of trees suitable for building and firewood. My mates\nseemed perfectly content to stay in this restricted area, and seemed to\nhave no desire to explore further the island upon which we had landed.\nBut, although I too felt that serenity, happiness, and contentment, I\nyearned to explore the rest of the island, for I felt that there were\nother mysteries and wonders yet to be seen.\n\nThe rest of the island, which I set out to explore on the sixth day of\nour stay, was much like the small part in which we had encamped, but\nseemed to grow increasingly more beautiful as I travelled inland. All\nthrough the morning, I tramped through the thick growth of the island,\ncoming now and then upon small glades, where damp, fresh green moss\nsurrounded little pools and silvery streams. These glades were dark and\ncool, and the air was pure and refreshing.\n\nAs I neared what I judged to be the centermost part of the island, I\nbroke through a wall of the island greenery, and saw, like a blazing\njewel in a setting of green, a lake, its waters of glowing, deep\nblue. This lake was surrounded by long-leaved trees, like the weeping\nwillow I had seen at home, that trailed to the thick carpet of rich\ngreen moss below. Curling vine tendrils, dashed here and there with\ndots of red berries and exotic flowers, locked themselves around the\ngiant cypress trees. The sun pointed shafts of dull gold through the\ntrees that clasped their hands overhead, and the air was alive, vital,\nand refreshingly cool, a direct contrast to the pleasant, but heavy,\nsensuously sweet smell of the rest of the island.\n\nThe cool, secluded lakeside oasis was a perfect place to stop from my\nexploring, so I settled down on a soft knoll of moss, ate fruit from\nnearby trees, and drank the sweet coconut milk. I must have fallen into\na deep and restful sleep, for I suddenly started up, arrested by sounds\nwhich I first attributed to dreams. The silence and serenity was still\nin the air, but there came to my ears, attuned by the deep silence\nto any small sound, a strange, melodic humming. I was aware through\nsome instinct that I must not move. As I strained my ears, the humming\nbecame louder, and looking over the lake, I saw its smooth surface\nripple as if a child had thrown a handful of pebbles onto it. The\nhumming vibrations seemed to have their source directly in the lake.\n\nI could sit still no longer, and crept slowly to the water\u2019s edge. The\nripples grew larger, and to my amazed eyes there appeared a hundred or\nso small fish, whose brilliantly colored bodies shimmered and vibrated.\nThese fish were singing! The humming grew in intensity, and I was able\nto recognize several of the melodies; Scottish airs, South African\nchants, Southern Negro songs, Cape Cod sea chanties, Lullabies--all\nthese came to my ear on a wave of the most beautiful harmony I have\never heard. My brain reeled with the phenomena and the beauty of the\nmusic. I could not believe what my own ears and eyes told me, and made\na sudden movement toward the water. The humming ceased instantly,\nthe fish vanished, and the water\u2019s surface was as smooth as before.\nThe great silence once more filled the atmosphere. I felt a strange\nexultation as I made my way back to the camp, and though I said nothing\nof this amazing discovery to my companions, I determined to return to\nthe lake of the humming fish the next day.\n\nDay after day I returned to the green, cool loveliness surrounding the\nlake of the humming fish. And each day I awoke wondering what I could\nfind there. At times the fish would seem to greet me with their burst\nof humming, but upon other occasions they never appeared. It was on\nthose days of silence that I began to think that I was fast approaching\ninsanity. As the days passed, I became more hypnotized by the phenomena\nof these humming fish. Gradually they seemed to become accustomed to my\npresence, and two of the boldest allowed me to feed them small bits of\nberry and weed that I tossed to them. Several times these two came to\nthe surface alone, and refused to hum until I had given them the food.\nI began to think of these two fish, which were bright silver in color,\nwith gorgeous stripes of deepest blue, green, and yellow, as my own.\n\nMy strange rendezvous with the humming fish continued for several\nweeks, and when my mates at last came from their dream-world and\nbegan thinking of home and family, I determined to capture the two\nfish and carry them home with me. At length our ship, which we had\nall considered wrecked beyond repair, was mended enough to warrant an\nattempt to leave the island and the sea of currents.\n\nOn my last journey to the lake of the humming fish, which I had come to\nconsider as my own piece of paradise and contentment, I lured the small\nhumming fish into a wide-mouthed jug, filled with water from their own\nlake. I supplied myself also with three kegs of this same lake water,\nand prepared to carry the fish home with me.\n\nI will not dwell on the voyage home, it suffices to say that we all\narrived safely, and pledged ourselves to secrecy about the island and\nthe sea we had visited. At home harbor, each man went his separate\nway, and I, with my humming fish, strode home through the darkness,\ntaking the shortcut around Monomoy Point. The night was dark as ink,\nand I stumbled from weariness, dropping the precious keg of fish on\nthe rocks at the water\u2019s edge, and the two humming fish escaped. It\nseemed at that moment that all I had experienced was a dream, for in\nthe vanishing of the fish, only the memory of my island paradise could\nremain.\n\nFor days I walked to the spot at Monomoy Point where the fish had\nescaped. I called to them as I had at the island lake, and left small\nbits of their favorite berry food at the water\u2019s edge, but they could\nnot, or would not, appear.\n\nYou are perhaps wondering why I kept silent so long. I had a wife and\nthree children, and I was a man of good name in my Cape Cod community,\nand could not risk their well being by the revelation of this incident,\nwhich would surely mark me as touched. And further, I did not wish to\nhave this most wonderful of experiences tarnished and bandied about by\nunimaginative and callous cynics.\n\nIt has been many years since I have gone to Monomoy Point in an attempt\nto call back the humming fish from that loveliest lake on the island\nparadise, but I have never forgotten them or the place in which I first\nfound them. All my recollections are as vivid and as real as the day\nwhen I first found myself in that strange and beautiful setting.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES:\n\n\n  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.\n\n  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.\n\n  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.\n\n  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.\n\n  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.\n    copyright on this publication was renewed.","title":"Tall tales of Cape Cod","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":21004}