shipmates under like conditions on a real Maine coast morning. It is enough to say that a stiff northwester, originating somewhere up among the pines, where the air is one hundred per cent pure, was blowing down through Bluehill Bay, over Green Mountain, and pushing whitecaps out to sea. Captains, and mates, and sailors, and poets, and multimillionaires, and statesmen, and humorists, and mortals were early astir and out on deck. There was no stage sunrise that morning, deep breathing was the only bracer, — and — - "Steward, breakfast on deck!" And there were fresh tinker mackerel.

Now, it is very undignified to shout from one good ship to another during a dignified cruise of the dignified New York Yacht Club see section 28 of the amended constitution. But yachting decorum went to the northwest winds, and poets, and statesmen, and the like skylarked, and called to their friends, and ran a few were inspired and somebody pushed some

up and down the decks, into the rigging,

body overboard, and the good ship Sappho, Captain Thomas B. Reed, First Mate Mark Twain, no longer had a monopoly of laughter. It takes cocktails and champagne to do this in the Sound, but up here—it's all in the air.

And this was Maine! And I was proud. So, with single reefs, we beat it up by Schooner Head and into Bar Harbor, as happy, carefree, and boyish a lot of multimillionaires as ever robbed a widow and orphan.

I wish to say now, before going back to York Harbor to sail east closer inshore, that there was money for Maine in that night's shift of wind. For many a big yacht-owner did I hear say this—or something like this: "Well, by George, this is great. I have been wasting time west of the Cape. Me for Maine in the good old summer time," in the good old Brotherhood vernacular. And I've seen him, and many of him, many times since enjoying himself in the soft shore airs, not only in his palace afloat, but in his palace ashore, built afterwards as a permanent summer home.

IV

KITTERY TO SAIL ROCK

THE only really reprehensible thing connected with the coast of Maine is that rickety old bridge from Portsmouth to Kittery. George Varney, in his "Gazetteer of Maine," says it was built in 1822. It looks it- and rides it. If you have time, go downstream and take the little ferry. You will go only a little farther and certainly fare no worse. Incidentally, you will get a nearer view of a small projection of land whose official but unchristian name is "Pull-and-be-Damned Point." Go down even if you have n't time. You will do your individual part in serving justifiable protest and hastening the welcome day of a new gateway into the garden.

However, you may cross the harmless Piscataqua any way you like. Once over, and you have ridden, or walked, into the region of

IV

KITTERY TO SAIL ROCK

THE only really reprehensible thing connected with the coast of Maine is that rickety old bridge from Portsmouth to Kittery. George Varney, in his "Gazetteer of Maine,” says it was built in 1822. It looks it- and rides it.

If

you have time, go downstream and take the little ferry. You will go only a little farther and certainly fare no worse. Incidentally, you will get a nearer view of a small projection of land whose official but unchristian name is "Pull-and-be-Damned Point." Go down even if you have n't time. You will do your individual part in serving justifiable protest and hastening the welcome day of a new gateway into the garden.

However, you may cross the harmless Piscataqua any way you like. Once over, and you have ridden, or walked, into the region of