the "Bertha" gets a two hundred and twenty-fifth part of the proceeds, or almost five hundred dollars. Between the captain's five thousand, five hundred and fifty dollars and the cabin boy's five hundred dollars, the others share, the amount decreasing from the first mate down.

There is another species of whale called the humpback, which seems to be the connecting link between the sperm and the right whale, partaking of some of the qualities of each. The oil is not so valuable as the sperm, and the bone is not as good as the right whale, still they are much hunted around the West Indies islands, where they are most abundant. Unlike other whales they do not go in herds or schools, but in pairs, unless the calves or young are present. Short-voyage vessels from from Provincetown and other New England ports hunt this whale in the early spring, from February to June, then leave for the sperm whale grounds to finish the

season.

In the old days scarcely a ship would come in from a long, deep sea cruise without bringing tales that seemed more wonderful than any "Sinbad, the Sailor" could tell, and that made the story of Jonah and the whale, in comparison, sink into insignificance.

Of whales attacking vessels and inflicting serious damage there are but few known instances. I recall one on the bark "Parker Cook," of Provincetown. This vessel was cruising off the Azores and struck a large, lone sperm whale, which proved to be an ugly customer and showed fight. After demolishing

the boats it attacked the vessel, and rushing toward it with open mouth, bit the forefoot clean to the wood ends of the planking, causing a bad leak. Apparently satisfied with the damage done, it then left the vessel, and laid by about a quarter of a mile to windward of the ship. Captain Cook patched up one boat and notwithstanding the second mate had lost his leg in the encounter, and the rest of the crew were more or less demoralized, again went for the whale and killed him. After cutting him in, the vessel headed for Fayal, Azores, and by pumping and bailing was kept afloat till she reached that port. Upon examination it was found that only about one-half inch of wood was left forward, where the damage was done. Had that been removed the vessel would have gone to the bottom.

An amusing incident happened to a boat's crew engaged in whaling near the Spanish Main. A whale was struck, and capsizing the boat, one of the crew landed on the back of the whale, close to where the harpoon was deeply embedded. The man, thoroughly excited and frightened at his situation, grabbed firm hold of the staff. The whale instead of sounding swam quickly off with the man clinging on his back; the whale had cleared himself from the boat but was dragging the line after him. After swimming a short distance he turned and came back near the vessel, the man in the meantime retaining his slippery seat. A boat pulled up to within a short distance, the man then struck out and swam to it, carrying the line which was fast to the harpoon with him. The whale was finally killed.

"And what signs have told you now That he hastens home?' 'Lo! the spring is nearly gone, He is nearly come."

O

I

VER the aureole of clearranged hills and over Veery Valley the blue air of dusk was spreading like a mist. From the hollow with its thicket of birch and elms the brook glimmered and across the valley over the top of a blossoming apple tree lay a brown. field warm with spring and the shelter of twilight. In his thoughts old Tristram Shepard leaned out toward the warmth of the ploughed field, tingling with a sense of its human nearness. It was so long to wait; this year there had been a fortnight of waiting on the hill's brow, watching the dusk fill the vale and the stars crown the dusk. Would it come to-night? A swallow cut the air over his head, in the grass a cricket cheeped, down in the marsh the hylas called. Gray with shadows on the edge of the dim valley the blossoming apple tree seemed like some white dream. There was an exquisite nearness about it, not the touch of the warm earth yet still a caress, cool fingers upon his eyes, the dreams of his boyhood, his vagrant manhood and now of his pauper old age. Those who might have understood these visitants laughed, and so their presence became his alone. Hope, too,

had laughed, not unkindly but as an apologist. Tristram sighed to think that she had met herself and laughed.

Would it come this dusk? In the shrubbery at the foot of a birch a catbird scolded, paused, then whistled. Had she heard it and was mocking before he had caught even the first note? Tristram looked into the hollow and to the opposite hillside, the field turning black with shadows. Must he wait another

day with the road winding up and over the hills and beckoning him to come away? Then at last from the uplands: "Come to me, Come to me," distinct, calm, restful, the wood thrush called. Again, "Come to me, Come to me," rang each clear-dropping prelude. Before the last note had sunk down, down, down from the hillside into the valley there came from the marsh and the thicket, up, up, up, an angelic circle of song: twirl of leaves, shadows, soft sound of running water in the spiral notes of the veery, mystical, strange, unearthly. Clear antiphone rang the answer: "Come to me, Come to me" and Tristram's eyes followed the road winding up over the darkening hills.

II

"Ye were B-orn full of Si-in an' Enmity to Him: an' Hel-1 wuz yoor desarv-ed Portion as soon as ever

ye came into the Wor-rold. Yours is a sin-full Heart, a cor-rupt Heart, a vee-cious Heart that is a ver-y Hel-1 of Wickedness," droned Seth Kettle from behind a book.

Mercy Jiggels went on rocking violently, her hands on the arms of the rocker, her eyes upon the ceiling.

"A vee-cious Heart," repeated Seth Kettle, squinting at Mercy over his hooked nose and lantern jaw, "a ver-y vee-cious Heart, Mercy Jiggels, to pound Dea Edwards with the Holy Bible."

Mercy giggled, tightened her dirty shawl about her and pulled a matted lock coquettishly over one eye.

"A ver-y Hel-1 of Wickedness, an' we're distrested. Satan's fair captivated ye an' in the sight of the Lord an' the nee-bors ye're ruinin' the good name of the Town Farm,-an' Dea Edwards lyin' sick!"

Mercy scowled, jerked her skirt and then smiled blandly as she repeated:

"Dea Edwards lyin' sick."

"Fie, Mercy," spoke up Angel Torrey gently, from the window where he was mending a rush-bottomed chair; "fie, ye've spoiled our repertation a pretty deal."

"Aye," threatened Seth Kettle, waving a knotty forefinger, "aye, Mercy Jiggels, ye have; an' Dea Edwards when he's up 'll put your name on the da-mn file an' there ain't been no one there sence Endcome Shove set fire to the old Town Farm."

Mercy giggled and began to rock. again.

"I guess old Tris's been lookin' for the veeries," said Return Wait from the ironing board.

"I did see him out by the valley yestidday," admitted Seth Kettle,

not yet willing to relinquish Mercy.

"He'll be startin' on his spring trip in a day or so now," added Angel Torrey between pats from his. tack hammer; "I seen him shinin' his flute an' lookin' wild the way he hez of doin' when spring comes."

Mercy Jiggels pulled aside the matted lock. "Be he goin' to Hope Fenner's?"

"He be," replied Seth Kettle sternly. "I heard him playin' a new psalm tune this mornin' an' it sounded most like one of them ungodly meadder larks. When spring comes his tunes ain't ez sanctified ez they might be."

"But he's a religious man," asserted Angel Torrey; "no one can deny he prays an' reads the Bible an' plays a psalm tune's regular ez sun-up."

"A light tune's the devil's catch an' some on Tris's tunes is unsanctified light," replied Seth. "It wuz allers jest so with thet fam'ly. I kin remember his mother; they had dretful ungodly names. The mother spoke her name Ee-layne an' they said it wuz took out'n a light book. With the neebors it wuz allers plain Ellen. They wuz a readin' an' playin' tunes an' singin' tunes an' dretful shiftless the whole time."

"There," said Return Wait, giving a thump with her smoothing iron, "thet swaller's nest is nice an' stamped out. Come here, Seth Kettle, an' I'll dampen it an' put it right on your throat."

Seth lifted his crooked body and sidled over to her. "I guess thet'll keep ye out'n the wooden chest ye'll be boxed in some day-for a while anyway," said Return cheerfully.

Mercy Jiggels raised her hands. looked at them, smiled and mumbled: "Buryin' gloves?"

yearly visits he made to them also. Mis' Verin never dreamed that the arrival of the thrushes meant more to Hope Fenner than a season for planting cucumber seed. Tristram was likely to reach Miss Fenner's on Saturday, stay over Sunday, get his clothes washed Monday and change to Mis' Verin's house on Wednesday or Thursday following, thus making the round of the village hospitality.

There was the crispness of an oldfashioned pink about Hope Fenner, and still a tint of the pink in her old cheeks. On either side of her face the white hair was neatly parted and rolled in curls. Below the hem of the full gray poplin skirt, white stockings were visible. As she rocked she drew her shawl more closely about her for the late spring afternoon was growing coolish. She was ashamed of herself to be watching the road like a silly schoolgirl. She had seen the first jack-in-the-pulpit push up through the sod of the low meadow, the first anemone blow shyly in the grass, the first liverwort blossom in the tangle of brush and brier, the first violets bloom by the edge of the brook, the first bluebirds settle on the ridge of the barn roof. Now Mis' Verin told her the thrushes

had come. And from jack-in-thepulpit to thrush these harbingers had for her but one meaning.

Hope settled back in her rocker; if only he would act like other folks instead of saying fancy things about birds and flowers, and forever playing on his flute. He made her nervous, perhaps she could get accustomed to it. Such things might be all right in a poetry book but they did not seem quite decent in a man who ought to know better.

For the moment she forgot that things he said had flashed upon her long afterwards like blinks of sunshine or that snatches of recollected song had warmed up cold winter days. Such idling did all very well for a child but he was a grown man. He was certainly different from anybody she had ever known; it did not seem natural to have a man around who made you think of a garden, there were times, too, when he was about as hazy as her garden love-in-the-mist, or of an orchard tree full of birds. He had much better be chopping wood than playing on a flute to a tree of squeaky phoebes!

Hope folded her hands decisively but the next moment her eyes were searching the road; the pink in her old cheeks deepened, the hands lost. their decisive fold, the poplin bodice suffered a strange disturbance and Hope's silver curls swung out from her face as she craned forward looking down the winding valley.

V

The moon waded through the dark filigree of low-spreading apple trees, the branches with their crinkle of twigs and bunches of blossoms stood out silvery and clear as the tracery of screen-work; even the long orchard grass caught and held the shimmer. There was soft depth to the liquid light which haloed the trees, sparkling on leaves, trickling down twigs and branches, and streaming through to the deep grass. The orchard was dreaming and waiting, expectant as the silver stillness of water. As the moon rose the intervals of silence lengthened, broken only by the drowsy chant of an awakened song sparrow.