Now is it to be rain or a storm of wind at the Basin?
I love that foam out on the sea; those boulders, black and wet along
the shore, they are a rest to me; the clouds chase one another; in this
dim north country the wind is cool and strong, though it is now
midsummer; at sunset you shall see such color!
From a little, low, storm-beaten building comes the sound of a
fog-horn. That is the gift of Melchias Tibbitts, deceased, to the
Basin school-house. Yonder is his schooner, the "Martha B. Fuller,"
long stranded, leaning seaward, down there in the cove.
It is Sunday afternoon; the fog-horn that Melchias Tibbitts gave--it
serves as bell; the battered schoolhouse as church; and for Sunday
raiment? some little reverent, aspiring compromise of an unwonted white
collar, stretched stiff and holy and uncomfortable about the stalwart
neck above a blue flannel shirt, or a new pair of rubber boots--the
trousers much tucked in--worn with an air of conscious, deprecating
pride.
But the women will be fine. God only knows how! but be sure, in some
pitiful, sweet way they will be fine.
There are many panes of glass out of the windows, the panels of the
doors are out; so better they can see the clouds pass: it is beautiful.
Oh, naught have I either, nor wisdom, nor fine speech--only a little
knowledge of shipwreck out yonder, and mirth, and tears, and love. The
windows and panels of my life are no strong plate, polished and
glittering to all beholders; they are stained and broken through. Let
me come in and sit with ye.
"We should like to open our meetin' with singin'," said Superintendent
Skates; "will one of the Pointers lead us in singin'?"
The Pointers were the aristocrats of this region, living twelve miles
away at the Point, in the midst of two grocery stores and a millinery
establishment; there were two of them here for a Sunday drive and
pastime. They were silent.
"I see," said Elder Skates patiently, "that a few of the Crooked Rivers
have drove down to-day, too. Will one of the Crooked Rivers lead us in
singin'?"
Lower down in the scale than the Pointers were they of Crooked River,
but still far above the Basins; those present were not singers, they
were silent.
"Then will one of the Capers lead us in singin'?" very meekly and
patiently persisted Elder Skates.
Nearer, and of low degree, were they of the Cape, but still above the
Basins. They were silent.
"I know," said Elder Skates, his subdued tone buoyant now with an
undertone of hope, "that one of the Basins will lead us in singin'!"
For the Basins had reached those cheerful depths where there is no
social or artistic status to maintain; so low as to be expected to do,
or attempt to do, whatever might be asked of them, even though failure
plunged them, if possible, in deeper depths of abasement. There was
nothing beneath them except the Artichokes; and it was seldom, very
seldom, an Artichoke was present.
But the Basins, though so low, were modest.
"Can't one of the Basins start, 'He will carry you through'?" said the
enduring Brother Skates; "where is Vesty?"
"She 's a-helpin' Elvine with her baby," came now a prompt and ready
reply: "she said she'd come along for social meetin', after you'd had
Sunday-school, ef she could."
"How is Elvine's baby?" spoke up another voice.
"Wal', he 's poored away dreadful, but Aunt Lowize says he 's turned to
git along all right now, and when Aunt Lowize gives hopes, it 's good
hopes, she 's nachally so spleeny."
"Sure enough. Wal', I've raised six, and nary sick day, 'less it was a
cat-bile or some sech little meachin' thing. I tell you there ain't no
doctor's ructions like nine-tenths milk to two-tenths molasses, and sot
'em on the ground, and let 'em root."
At this simple and domestic throwing off of all social reserve, voices
hitherto silent began to arise, numerous and cheerful.
"Is there any more rusticators come to board this summer?"
"There 's only four by and large," replied a male voice sadly. "These
here liquor laws 't Washin'ton 's put onto nor'eastern Maine are
a-killin' on us for a fash'nable summer resort. When folks finds out
't they've got to go to a doctor and swear 't there 's somethin' the
matter with their insides, in order to git a little tod o' whiskey
aboard, they turns and p'ints her direc' for Bar Harbor and Saratogy
Springs; an' they not only p'ints her, they h'ists double-reef sails
and sends her clippin'!"
"Lunette 's got two," came from the other side of the house.
"What do they pay?"
"Five dollars a week."
"Pshaw! what ructions! Three dollars a week had ought to pay the board
of the fanciest human creetur 't God ever created yit. But some folks
wants the 'arth, and'll take it too, if they can git it."
"Wal', I don' know; they're kind o' meachy, and allas souzlin'
theirselves in hot water; it don't cost nothin', but it gives yer house
a ridick'lous name. Then they told Lunette they wanted their lobsters
br'iled alive. 'Thar,' says she, 'I sot my foot down. I told 'em I'
wa'n't goin' to have no half-cooked lobsters hoppin' around in torments
over my house. I calk'late to put my lobsters in the pot, and put the
cover on and know where they be,' says she."
"I took a rusticator once 't was dietin' for dyspepsy--that's a state
o' the stomick, ye know, kind o' between hay and grass--and if I didn't
get tired o' makin' toast and droppin' eggs!"
"I never could see no fun in bein' a rusticator anyway, down there by
the sea-wall on a hot day, settin' up agin' a spruce tree admirin' the
lan'scape, with ants an' pitch ekally a-meanderin' over ye."
"Lunette's man-boarder there, the husban', he 's editor of a
noos-sheet, and gits a thousand dollars a year--'tain't believable, but
it's what they say--an' he thinks he knows it all. He got Fluke to
take him out in his boat; he began to direc' Fluke how to do this, an'
how to do that, and squallin' and flyin' at him. Fluke sailed back
with him and sot him ashore. 'When I take a hen in a boat, I'll take a
hen,' says he."
"Did ye hear about Fluke's tradin' cows?"
"No."----
Meanwhile Brother Skates had been standing listening, patient,
interested, but now recovered himself, blushing, in his new rubber
boots.
"Can't one of the Basins start 'He will carry you through'?" he
entreated.
"I'd like to," said one sister, the string of her tongue having been
unloosed in secular flights; "I've got all the dispersition in the
world, Brother Skates, but I don't know the tune."
"It 's better to start her with only jest a good dispersition and no
tune to speak of," said Brother Skates with gentle reproof, "than not
to start her at all."
Thus encouraged the song burst forth, with tune enough and to spare.
It was this I heard--I, a happy adopted dweller, from the lowest
handle-end of the Basin, while driving over through the woods with
Captain Pharo Kobbe and his young third wife and children.
"Come, git up," said Captain Pharo, at the sound, applying the lap of
the reins to the horse; "ye've never got us anywheres yet in time to
hear 'Amen'! Thar 's no need o' yer shyin' at them spiles, ye darned
old fool! Ye hauled 'em thar yourself, yesterday. Poo! poo! Hohum!
Wal--wal--never mind--
[Illustration: Music fragment: 'My days are as the grass. Or as--']