The torrent of conservation surged over our community in war_Cape Coddities

CAPE-CODDITIES

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CAPE

CODDITIES

_By_

DENNIS and MARION

CHATHAM

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_

HAROLD CUE

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BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

1920

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_FOREWORD_

These essays—thumbnail sketches of Cape Cod—should not be taken as a

serious attempt to describe the Cape or to delineate its people. They

merely express a perennial enthusiasm for this summer holiday land,

to-day the playground of thousands of Americans, three hundred years ago

the first “land of the free and home of the brave.”

Acknowledgments are here given to the _Atlantic Monthly_ for permission

to include “A By-Product of Conservation” and “Scallops,” to _The

Outlook_ for the same courtesy for “A Blue Streak,” and to _The House

Beautiful_ for “A Casual Dwelling-Place.”

THE AUTHORS.

_January, 1920._

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_CONTENTS_

I. _A Message from the Past_ 1

II. _The Casual Dwelling-Place_ 10

III. _The Ubiquitous Clam_ 27

IV. _A By-Product of Conservation_ 38

V. _Motor Tyrannicus_ 51

VI. _“Change and Rest”—Summer Bargaining_ 69

VII. _A Blue Streak_ 87

VIII. _A Fresh-Water Cape_ 97

IX. _Al Fresco_ 112

X. _Models_ 122

XI. “_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_” 132

XII. _My Cape Farm_ 140

XIII. _Scallops_ 154

_Aftermath_ 166

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_CAPE-CODDITIES_

A MESSAGE FROM THE PAST

Is it not strange that people who dwell in the same city block from

October to May, enjoying with mutual satisfaction the life which touches

them equally, should from May to October show such varying opinions that

argument is futile? These people who have wintered so happily together

may be placed in three classes—those who claim for the State of Maine the

exclusive right to the title of “God’s Own Country,” those who think of

the North Shore and Paradise as synonymous, and those other fortunates

whose regard for Cape Cod places it second only to heaven itself.

Therefore, it is interesting to read the following passages and to find

these same divergent views of the Cape in earliest times.

Captain John Smith in his account of New England in 1614, in a passing

reference to Cape Cod, says it “is a headland of high hills of sand

overgrown with shrubbie pines, hurts and such trash, but an excellent

harbor for all weathers. This cape is made by the maine sea on one

side and a great bay on the other, in the form of a sickle. On it doth

inhabit the people of Pawmet and in the Bottome of the Bay, the people of

Chawum.” Scant praise.

Bartholomew Gosnold, writing to Raleigh in 1602, through the medium of

his associate, John Brereton, said, “We stood a while like men ravished

at the beautie and delicacie of this sweet soil”; and later, “truly the

holsomnese and temperature of this climat doth not only argue this people

(Indian) to be answerable to this description, but also of a perfect

constitution of body, active, strong, healthful and very wittie.”

Here spoke the original summer visitor and the founder of that colony

which dots the coast from Marion to Manomet.

If Gosnold could see the Cape on the present day, he would doubtless

show profound disappointment, unless he had chanced to invest in shore

property, for the forests teeming with game have disappeared, and no

trace of the wit he describes can be detected among the few Indians who

still cling to the shores of Mashpee Pond. But the broad waters, the

sloping sands, and above all the soft climate which Mr. Brereton tells

us did so much for the aborigine, and which now transforms our children

into veritable little red men, remain.

Despite the depredations which the Cape has suffered at the hands of

both natives and summer residents, its flavor has been maintained, and

the very fact that it is largely inhabited serves well in these days of

friendly intercourse and indulgent habits; for we all of us must live

happily in summer, and to do so means comfort, food, and drink. And so we

find each town, however diminutive, possesses its Butcher and Baker and

Candlestick-Maker.

The latter, to be sure, is employed by the local electric light plant,

and often his trade includes a knowledge of simple plumbing. The Baker

more often is both Postmaster and Grocer, while the Butcher may be

found to be the Chairman of the Board of Selectmen. But all are true to

the type, and that wit which Gosnold so happily mentions may often be

detected among these simple people, some of whom are sea captains whose

taciturnity has been transformed into a shrewd cynicism coupled not

infrequently with a delightful optimism. Rarely will a native Cape-Codder

get the worst of a repartee and still more rarely will you find him the

first to terminate a conversation. He is as tenacious in conversational

competition as he is lax in business aggression. In fact, he would far

rather stand on the corner and describe to you, in detail, the amount of

work that has been shouldered upon him by So and So and So and So’s wife,

than to make the slightest attempt to accomplish any of the sundry duties

imposed. And yet he knows, and so do you, if you are at all versed in

Cape ways, that he will receive ample financial return for his slightest

service.

There is no such word as hurry in the bright lexicon of Cape Cod, but

I confess it with some trepidation, for my many Cape friends will take

violent exception to my statement, true as it is. And yet I do not blame

them. I believe it is thoroughly accounted for by the climate; for when I

first visit the Cape in the spring or early summer, I always experience

a languor which makes the slightest effort seem a task of large

proportions. In short, I am lazy and prefer to see some one else do it.

This feeling generally passes away with the sheer joy of vacation days,

days of freedom and fresh air; but I realize that the climate breeds a

lack of ambition, to which I doubtless would succumb were I to live on

without interruption amid the Cape-Codders.

And therefore I prefer to think of the Cape as a playground for the

initiate, a wonderland for children, and a haven of rest for the tired of

all ages, a land where lines and wrinkles quickly disappear under the

soothing softness of the tempered climate.

Joseph Lincoln has told us of the people; Thoreau has written of the

place; but no one will really know the Cape unless he becomes a part of

it.

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THE CASUAL DWELLING-PLACE

Is there a reader who has not at one time or another gloated over the

terrors, the thrills, and the mysteries which, in fiction, invariably

lie hidden in an unoccupied house? When one stops to think of it nearly

all the literature of roguery, as so clearly set forth in former days by

Wilkie Collins, Gaboriau, down to Conan Doyle and Mary Roberts Rinehart,

possesses as its most important stage-setting an untenanted mansion. It

may be one of those familiar villas generally located somewhere near

Hampstead Heath, a house set apart from its neighbors and surrounded

by a hedge; a house with every appearance of having been closed for

several years and now showing the first signs of decay; or it may be one

of those somber brownstone houses situated in one of the many New York

residential streets, where every house so closely resembles its fellows

as to court mischief to all who may return late at night; or again, it

may be one of those palatial country houses set among lawns and gardens

which are invariably described with broad, magnificent porticoes toward

which spotless limousines are continually approaching at top speed for no

apparent reason. Such a setting is perhaps the commonest, and the time is

always just before the family arrive for the season or just after they

have left for other equally expensive quarters. Now and then the novelist

will modestly cast the fate of his story in the seclusion of a deserted

cottage by the sea or a lonely hut among the hills, but rarely does this

occur nowadays. The mystery story is as dependent upon luxury of setting

as is the modern bachelor upon his creature comforts. And, therefore,

if the devotee of fiction chose to apply himself to this theme, he

would find that nearly all novelists, great and small, from Dickens

to Oppenheim, from Hawthorne to Anna Katharine Green, have utilized

the empty house to bring about the climactic point in the weaving of

some gruesome tale. So clear are these fictional features that, by the

association of ideas, one’s fears and apprehensions are invariably

aroused whenever the occasion arises when an unoccupied house or even an

untenanted apartment must be entered.

With that unmistakable odor of mustiness comes afresh this uncomfortable

sense of trepidation (hardly fear, perhaps), and with it a conviction

that rats and mice are hidden spectators, and that the darkness and gloom

could well hide crime as well as the thieves themselves. This entire

mental state is largely caused by the aforesaid novelists, who I doubt

not would have the same hesitancy in opening the door of a darkened

chamber or in groping down the cellar stairs of a house long left to

disintegration.

In short, reading has trained us all to regard empty houses with

suspicion, an absurd state of mind which should be quickly dispelled, for

in the case of nine out of every ten, yes, or ninety-nine out of every

hundred houses, there is no cause whatever for suspicion.

There is a sunny little house on the shores of Buzzard’s Bay which

remains unoccupied except for ten weeks in the summer. Its shutters are

closed and fastened long before the oaks have turned to their gorgeous

fall colorings or the marigolds and phlox have lost the freshness of

their bloom.

The soft, salty breeze, rippling the waters, the dancing rays of the

September sun through the swaying pines, give a joyous setting to this

cottage by the water, courting as it were an occupant. The hardiest of

that overworked class of readers who rely upon mystery stories would

find it difficult to conjure up a tragedy for such a spot. The native

Cape-Codders, knowing the owners, always glance over toward the cottage

as they pass by in the hope of finding a blind open or a light through

the trees, to show that some of “ther fam’ly be down for Sunday.” For

this is one of the important services which this particular cottage

renders to its owners. As the scion of the family (aged ten) once sagely

remarked, “We use the cottage more when it’s closed than when it’s open.”

And to each and every member of this house its welcome is always the

same. The family reach the house after dark on a Saturday night. The lock

readily responds to familiar fingers, the door creaks a friendly welcome

as the family grope their way through the hall in good-humored rivalry

to see which shall be the first to secure the box of matches always kept

on the right-hand corner of the mantelpiece in the living-room for this

emergency. Then, as the lamps are lighted, the old familiar objects

appear precisely as they had been left, perhaps six months before, with

a coating of dust, to be sure, but nothing which a few moments and a

dustcloth could not remove; for dust in this region is little known.

True, the chairs, or at least such of them as possess cushions, are

shrouded in covers. The sofa is a bulging conglomeration of cushions,

gathered from all hammocks and piazza furniture; but a few deft passes

by the fairy godmother of this establishment, and presto, the cushions

are distributed and the sofa offers a cozy retreat for the entire party.

Otherwise the living-room is livable. A fire ready laid is only waiting

for a match and a turn of the hand to open the flue. Such is a cottage by

the sea if it has been planned and built as it should be, not alone for

summer use, but also for spring and autumn holidays.

The little cottage in question is a very ancient affair. A long line

of sturdy Cape-Codders dwelt in it, uncomfortably, for generations. It

was not until a few years ago that it was entirely renovated, enlarged,

and equipped for summer use. Much care and thought were given to its

convenience, and it stands to-day as a model for perennial use as a

casual habitation. But it has certain drawbacks; as, for instance,

plaster. Such a cottage, to secure the maximum comfort with the minimum

of expense, should be unplastered, and without a cellar so that the

circulation of air will keep the house free from dampness. There should

be a kerosene cooking-stove in the kitchen so that the cooking can be

done without jeopardizing the water coil or boiler. Furthermore, unless

one’s family and friends are experts in the culinary art, the usual stove

fire is built regardless of the cost of coal or kindlings, and the

fire itself is apt to take a good deal of time in the making, several

trials often being necessary before the coals kindle into a respectable

glow. The problem of water is perhaps the most troublesome. No house, of

course, can be left with the water on during the winter season. These

Cape cottages are no exception to the rule, and every pipe is carefully

drained and the faucets greased to prevent rust.

To go to the trouble of turning on the water system for an occasional

Sunday or holiday was manifestly out of the question, and so the owner of

this particular cottage solved the difficulty in true backwoods fashion.

A small stone tank, placed in the closet behind the stove, holding not

over five gallons of water, was always religiously filled. This served as

lubricant for a hand pump at the kitchen sink. One of the first duties in

starting in housekeeping was to heat a pail of this water, thaw out the

pump, and thus secure the supply which adequately filled the family needs

for the day or two of camp life to be enjoyed.

You will ask what of bedding and blankets? They are there at hand. As

a matter of fact, the less one puts away the better for each and every

article. All blankets hung upon ropes stretched across the attic are dry

and ready for use. Upon such occasions as the one noted, the family do

without sheets and sleep fully as soundly. The blazing of the fire logs

and the warmth of the living-room have given to all a drowsy feeling

which defies wakefulness when once the head touches the pillow.

If any one should contemplate making use of his summer house in this

fashion, there are certain suggestions which it would be well to follow;

points which any yachtsman or camper would never overlook.

First of all, there should be a place for everything and everything

should be in place. You can never tell when you will return. Perhaps you

may be delayed and not arrive until after dark, chilled and hungry from

a long motor ride. At such times a fire ready laid, with a good store of

dried wood, is essential to happiness and comfort.

There should always be a list of provisions left at the house so that

you may avoid duplication in purchasing supplies. Besides food, there

should also be such necessaries as soap, matches, and candles. These

should always be left in the boxes to prevent the mice and squirrels

from robbing one. A good scheme is to build a zinc-lined cupboard in the

pantry in which to keep such perishables.

Kerosene is dangerous to leave about, and it is well to bring this with

you for the cook-stove; furthermore, it is hard to remember whether

enough has been left at the house for twenty-four hours’ use.

Care should always be taken to leave the small water tank filled unless

you plan to secure your supply from a friend or neighbor.

Your pots and pans, cutlery, dishes, and glasses should always be washed

and put away in order before leaving, ready for instant use.

A little system will make all the difference in the world in the comfort

and enjoyment of such an outing, and will save labor, so that your actual

work will be done in much less time and the daylight hours can be given

over to the outdoor life which endears the place to each and every

member of your family.

Whether it be a canoe, a knockabout, a gun, or a fishing-line, the

life outside the cottage will be a reflection of that within and

your enjoyment will come from the facility with which you manage the

essentials of simple living. And so after you have enjoyed your day in

the open, you will return to the cottage and discover that the simple

comforts which it offers, while perhaps lacking the luxury of your daily

routine at home, will be enjoyed with a relish far beyond that existence

in a brick block, amid a mass of bric-à-brac and surrounded by servants.

In its place you will devour an unusual amount of food which tastes the

better because you have cooked it, and later you will fall asleep with

the wind singing in the trees, and the waves lapping the shores. The

occasional barking of a dog will arouse no apprehension, and the dread of

haunted houses, of mysterious deeds accomplished behind closed shutters,

will have vanished until you are safe home again with a “thriller” to

pass away the time before it is seasonable to retire.

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III

THE UBIQUITOUS CLAM

“They scattered up & down ... by yᵉ waterside, wher they could

find ground nuts and clams.” (William Bradford, _History of

Plymouth Plantation_, II, 130.)

Surprising as it may seem, the clam, at least under his own name,

does not appear in the Encyclopædia Britannica. And yet the clam is

proverbial, metaphorical, and substantial, so substantial, in fact,

that individuals of uncertain digestion have been rendered distinctly

unhappy after a hearty encounter. But what is more surprising to the

average person, and especially to the novice in clamming, is where all

the clams come from for the unending clam-bakes, clam-chowders, and the

various concoctions necessitating a generous supply of these silent

shellfish. A journey to the beach at low tide (for all clammers know from

the reference to that animal’s joyous spirit at high water that clamming

is useless at that period) generally fails to accomplish more than a

very lame back, muddy feet, and a paltry dozen or more specimens of the

clam family, generally of immature age. The profusion of empty shells

scattered about encourage the clammer into the belief that here, at

least, is a favorable locality for his first efforts, and he grasps his

fork and bends low, thrusting the implement into the black ooze with keen

anticipation that the mud will disclose a whole family of clams, ready

at hand for capture; but, instead, he is rewarded by finding a number

of white shells, seemingly clams, but in reality merely their shells

held closely together by mud and sand, the skeletons of former bivalves

whose souls have fled to other worlds and whose bodies have long since

disappeared the way of all flesh. And so he seeks another spot, and the

same process is repeated. Each time he is conscious of an increasing

stiffening of the back, recalling former twinges of lumbago, and after

an hour or so the tide forces him to retreat, and he returns dejectedly

to partake of a thin clam-broth, upon the top of which, as a consolation

prize, his wife has tactfully placed a little whipped cream.

And yet the clam is ubiquitous, once you know him, and the clammer,

himself, has been immortalized by Mr. William J. Hopkins in several

delightful stories with which certain readers are familiar. The

enthusiast soon learns their favorite haunts and on favorable tides he

gathers these bivalves by the pailful. For chowders and for bait alike he

digs, constructs a wire cage in which to keep his precious clams from

day to day, and week to week, and thus they become, as it were, almost a

part of his summer _entourage_.

The clam is a numerous family (_Mya arenaria_, were one to become

scientific). The ordinary mud clam which inhabits the tidewater harbors

of our coasts; the quahog, whose young, termed “little necks,” are

served, uncooked, as appetizers; and the sea clam, are very familiar in

appearance and habits; but all varieties are secured in different ways

and in varying localities, and therein lies an added charm to the pastime

of clam-digging.

There is a certain portion of the coast line in a very attractive

section of Cape Cod, which shall be nameless, where all varieties of

these mollusks abound, and it is difficult at times to decide which

variety to pursue. The ordinary mud clam is generally sought on the

especially low tides so kindly afforded by the moon at stated intervals.

It is then that the tide line resembles miniature trenches—first-line

defenses, if you will—so many and so persistent are the pursuers,

who look for all the world as if they were digging themselves in in

anticipation of a machine-gun attack.

The quahog is more secure, for he lives in No Man’s Land, beyond the

trenches and just under the surface of the mud. If one is walking up a

salty, muddy creek—and surprising as the fact may seem, one often does

follow this watery by-path—the foot will continue to disclose these big

fellows. In the course of an hour of this method of locomotion, a full

pail of quahogs may be secured without further discomfort than a pair

of wet legs and two very muddy feet. The fishermen, however, regard

such efforts as time lost. They manipulate two long-handled rakes bound

together at the bottom, and with this implement a sort of hand-dredging

process is performed which apparently yields better results. But it is

only the native fisherman, with his knowledge of tides and currents, of

sandy or muddy bottoms, of channels and shoals, who can successfully

locate the choice spots where these quahogs lie hidden beneath water,

seaweed, and mud.

The sea clam is as immaculately clean as his harbor cousin is muddy.

He is likewise found just beneath the surface of the water, buried in

firm white sand over which the white-crested breakers foam on the beach.

These clams are not greatly valued as food. They are gamy and tough in

comparison to their brethren and a sharp contrast in appearance, with

their delicate, smooth shell of an exquisite _café au lait_ color, and it

is for this reason, perhaps, that only the most enthusiastic of clammers

or fishermen after bait know of their whereabouts.

Along the beaches where thousands of Americans may be seen in

impressionistic attire, disporting themselves by bobbing up and down

in the waves, one could easily secure a pailful of these fascinating

creatures by wading out and groping in the sands. No more exhilarating

pleasure can be secured from surf bathing than in this pastime, which

calls for agility in dodging the breakers as they roll in. While you are

in the act of dislodging a fine fat specimen, your pail grasped in one

hand, the other embedded in the sand seeking your prey, your body is

swept first in, then out, by the waves. In order to regain your balance

you lose your hold, just escape being toppled over by the next wave

rushing toward its finish on the sands, and miss the clam; and so the

process begins all over again.

The “little necks” have their own places of abode close to the surface of

the mud in sequestered inlets. Now and again the plebeian clammer will

come across a stray family of little fellows while in quest of the common

variety, but as a pastime digging for “little necks” has but little zest.

And now, after realizing the fascination of clamming, why be surprised

if, when you run down to the Cape for a week-end, your host grips you

with a hand, cold and moist from submersion—a “clammy hand”; and why be

surprised if on the following day, instead of the routine of golf and

tennis, you are initiated into this simple sport? The surprise would come

to the writer of this slight dissertation if he should find you callous

to the delight of clamming or disrespectful of the occupation of the

clammer.

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A BY-PRODUCT OF CONSERVATION

The torrent of conservation surged over our community in war-time with

a mighty roar, carrying with it all thought of flowers and lawns, and

making chaos of our cherished plans for a summer garden. With a velocity

which only social enterprise could initiate, New England became a market

garden from Eastport to Greenwich. Conservation developed back yards

and vacant lots into gardens, and bank clerks into farmers, enthusiastic

at the prospect, and innocent of the coming torments which weeds and

pests would soon bring with them. And so, for this same reason, our

flower garden on the Cape simmered down to a few nasturtiums and whatever

blossoms of a perennial nature cared to show themselves, while our spring

borders, usually a riot of color, were given over to vegetables.

What, then, should we have in our vases to reflect the profusion of the

outdoor season? For a room without flowers in summer is as devoid of

character and charm as a man without a necktie. The solution, naturally,

was soon found by many in the wild flowers, and if conservation has

accomplished nothing else, its gift to us of an appreciation of the

beauty and variety of these exquisite plants will more than repay our

efforts to grow potatoes, beans, and corn at exorbitant prices with

doubtful success.

The last days of school for the children and certain affairs at the

office, together with fixed habits which tyrannize over the household,

kept us from leaving for the Cape until late in June, so that we missed

the mayflowers which have made Cape Cod famous for generations. The iris

and violets, too, had disappeared, as well as the dogwood with its

delicate and generous pink-and-white petals. A few short hours after our

arrival, my little daughter discovered near by some exquisite specimens

of the wild lupine growing just as I had last seen it upon the slopes

of Mount Tamalpais near San Francisco, although perhaps not in the same

profusion.

From that first day until well into September, our living-room was made

joyous by a succession of flowers as delicate and graceful as ever came

from the highly cultivated gardens of the idle rich—a term which will

soon vanish and justly so.

The wild roses were late and never more plentiful or more perfect. The

daisies, arranged amid clusters of shiny bayberry and huckleberry leaves,

were transformed into stately decorations. The broom, as it is often

called, which abounds in certain sections of the Cape, planted there

in past years without doubt, gave one a sense of having been ferried

across the sea overnight, while our own columbine and wild geranium made

a pleasing variety, especially when arranged with the soft green of the

wild sarsaparilla.

With the coming of July, the _Hudsonia_, or beach heather, clothed our

foreground with brilliant yellow spots, touches of the sun here and

there, while the low wild shrubs and grasses seemed to grow overnight

in their desire to hide our view of the water. After a week of rain

in which we were confined to the flowers about the house—succulent

clover, Queen Anne’s lace, and a wide variety of tall grasses, which,

mingled with pine branches, form admirable wall decoration—our desire

for botanical information led us to scour the near-by country, not with

guide-book, motor-maps, or even a copy of “How to Know the Wild Flowers,”

but to journey simply forth, either on foot or tucked tightly into

our Ford car. To come unexpectedly upon one of the many ponds dotted

with lilies and fringed with a variety of flowering shrubs caused as

delightful a sensation as the same sight a few years ago would have

aroused, only then it would have stimulated a very different desire—the

thought of a possible bass, lazily drifting below the surface, to be

tempted, perhaps, by a fly, would have been uppermost. But this summer

our sport lay in securing wild flowers, a harmless and charming pastime

in which for the first time all the members of the family found equal

enjoyment, and even our near neighbors, confirmed golfers, admitted the

fascination of our newly acquired sport. To return laden with lilies,

wild clematis, marsh mallows, delicately pink upon their tall, stately

stems, cat-tails, red lilies, the fragrant clethra, and a variety of

other flowers whose names are to be discovered in the winter over a

“complete botanical guide,” savored of a veritable triumph.

Our growing interest in this wild garden was amply rewarded, for now in

August the flowers were at their height and it became doubly interesting.

Whether the discovery of new varieties or the satisfaction of gathering

and arranging the commonest weeds brought the greater pleasure, it is

hard to judge. The recollection of a tall, graceful copper vase filled

with the despised chicory and bouncing Bet, the blue of the one and the

delicate, pinkish purple of the other blending charmingly and supported

in contrast by a few sprays of sumac leaves, lingers as one of the

floral discoveries of the summer. A mass of fireweed, interspersed with

slender sprays of salt grass in full bloom, is another.

And yet to the sportsman or the embryonic scientist, individuals of very

similar characteristics, an excursion into the back country through the

woods, a good, long, honest tramp in pursuit of new floral game, and the

finding, now a clump of cardinal-flowers and again the deadly nightshade

(for the sportsman and scientist alike are fearless), is keen pleasure.

At times we would return with little booty to show for our trouble, a

gathering of St. John’s-wort, perhaps, or a few stalks of mallow or

one-eyed daisies, but never empty-handed and always with the exhilaration

of the thought that here was a garden without limit, without weeds, and

without the cares and expenses to which we were accustomed.

In arrangement, it must be confessed that discussion often arose. Certain

members of the family, who shall be nameless, preferred a few blooms

alone in each vase, while others clamored loudly for garnishings of salt

grasses and other green decorations. Upon such flowers as butterfly-weed

and tansy, such discussions nearly ended in riots, and only a tactful

distribution of these blooms to those who had gathered them with full

authority as to arrangement secured peace.

The goldenrod made its appearance earlier than usual, the handsome,

sturdy variety which grows close to the tidewater being especially fine.

With it came the purple and white wild asters, which are in reality so

much more beautiful than the cultivated kind, and the sea lavender vying

with baby’s-breath in its delicacy.

In this September a pleasant surprise came in the discovery of a flower

which we called—and possibly incorrectly so—the wild primrose, growing

close to the coast among the pines and scrub oaks; and blooming at this

same time was the beach pea, a long, climbing vine of a pinkish-violet

color, luxuriating amid the desolation of the sand-dunes.

Close upon the heels of these blossoms, which both seemed to belong to

the springtime, the turning of the leaves, the crispness of the air,

the short evenings, and the aforesaid three governing reasons, school,

office, and domestic domination, decided us with more reluctance than

ever to close the cottage. It was not until our luggage was packed and

ready that our final gatherings of the season’s wild flowers were removed

and the vases put away against the coming of next spring.

It still remains to be seen whether conservation will ultimately lead to

a saving in the cost of food (for Americans are more given to preaching

than to practice) but it has served us well in our appreciation of

certain of the good things in life.

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MOTOR TYRANNICUS

In the dim days of a decade ago—a generation might well have passed,

for time is measured by the march of events rather than the procession

of years—I remember yearning for the possession of an automobile. It

mattered not what make, or shape or size or year. I was oblivious to the

merits of six cylinders as opposed to four. I laughed at the enthusiast

who reckoned upon the length of wheel-base as deciding his comfort or

the question of demountable rims as governing his decision as to which

make to select. All I coveted was something on wheels (preferably four)

of my own which might go or even might not go, for so rampant was the

possessive desire in my heart that the chief thing in the world seemed

to me at that time to be able to say “My motor” in an utterly casual,

matter-of-fact tone, and back it up by nodding my head in the direction

of the barn, which after the fashion of marriages had suddenly changed

its name overnight by the possession of a master, and so became my

“garage.”

This ridiculous state of mind is easy to account for. In winter we lived

in the suburbs where it seemed to both my wife and to me that every

friend we had owned a car. In summer we sojourned upon Cape Cod, where

the motor had replaced the runabout so completely that our old horse

looked like a prehistoric relic of the Stone Age. Added to this was the

ignominy of knowing that the Butcher and Baker both possessed machines

and had that mythological person the Candlestick-maker abided in our

town, doubtless he also would have honk-honked his way by our door.

In short, the thing got so badly on our nerves that finally, with full

knowledge of the financial iniquity involved, I purchased one of those

hopelessly plebeian affairs which travel under so many opprobrious

pseudonyms—a Ford. From that day to this I have owned some sort of a car

and have thought myself a wise and a fortunate man, and subconsciously I

have felt myself rather more of a person because of this possession, for

such is the frailty of human nature.

To-day, however, marks a turning-point, a milestone, a crisis in my

career. Personally I consider this day one of triumph—I have sold my car.

I have no independent means of transportation other than my own good

legs—or, at least, they were so until I neglected them—and I rejoice in

my motorless state. I feel a sense of exhilaration in my freedom from

Fords, from the bondage of Buicks, from captivity in my Chandler Sedan.

Such exhilaration is doubtless hard to understand because precisely the

same conditions now exist which originally drove me into buying that

first “Universal Car,” only in a more exaggerated degree. My children

(and now there are more of them) are always clamoring for rides, even for

the short distance of a few blocks which separates our house from school.

My wife (and I must confess there is now more of her too) still plies her

trade of exchanging visits and buzzing about town all day long, never

thinking of walking, and for myself, I have become mutely accustomed

to the rôle of family chauffeur when not attempting that increasing

impossibility, the attempt to make both ends meet.

And yet, is it after all so hard to understand this relief? In the first

place, the car, no matter what variety, either goes or it does not go.

If by chance it goes, you must go with it. If it does not go, you must

make it go or get some one who knows more about it than you do, and who

costs more than you do, to mend it. That means that you go upstairs into

your own room and change into old clothes reserved for this purpose, go

down again and out to the garage, where you stand in contemplative mood

for some moments before crawling under the machine. When you are safely

landed in a dripping pool of oil, your children and your neighbor’s

children come trooping in from play and ask you why you are there and

what you are doing. This in itself is disconcerting, for you generally

don’t know. Having successfully found that out you slowly emerge from

your cramped quarters, which compare only with an upper berth, return to

your room, resume the garb of a successful business man, and take the car

to a garage and there wait until some one makes it _sound_ all right.

This individual vies with the tax collector in separating you from all

excess cash.

This does not happen every day, I admit, but there is a sensation in the

back of the mind of nearly every motorist which is more or less constant.

You know that you worry when the car does not go. There is no ground for

speculation upon this point. You worry about what the matter is, and when

you find you can’t mend it, and take it to a garage to be repaired, you

worry as to whether you have taken it to the right garage, or the right

man in the garage. You fuss over the cost and you continually wonder

whether the repairs have been properly done or whether the blamed thing

won’t break out in the same place the next time you take the car out. And

during this whole period you feel in the bottom of your heart that you

could have mended it just as well yourself.

Then there are the worries when it _does_ go. You wonder when the tires

are going to give out, whether they are too flat or too inflated,

whether you put in gas before you started, and how the water is. You are

continually guessing whether you have too much or too little oil, and you

generally guess wrong.

These, however, are all mere trifles, the superficial maunderings of a

sensitive organism. Your major worries may be classified under three

headings:

First: the worry of changing cars. Every year the question comes up for

family discussion, competing valiantly with the problem of when we are

to move to the Cape. Shall we turn in the old car and get a new one? If

so, what kind?—and then follows a month of violent discussion in which

my wife and the children take one side and I the other. By instinct I am

a modest man and by habit cautious. I do not like changes, especially

sudden changes, and so my inclination is either to stick to the old

car for another year or buy a new one like it. My family—why I cannot

say—seem to be oppositely inclined. My wife avers that So-and-So has had

great luck with a ⸺. Billy, my eldest, backs her up with several lengthy

anecdotes told him by So-and-So’s son, proving the excellence of that

make above all others. I am sufficiently shaken in my opinion to consult

with the garage-man from whom I bought my car, only to be shown a car of

the variety mentioned in deplorable condition awaiting the mechanic’s

skill. Poor engine, inadequate something or other,—I can’t remember the

name,—and so it goes. My office is thronged with automobile salesmen so

that work is impossible, while the evenings are passed in futile argument

until the final verdict is given, resulting generally in a compromise—a

new car is purchased of a trifle better type at a considerable advance

in price and the old car sacrificed for a song. Those days of budding

greenness for which we have longed through all the cold, useless days of

winter are utterly ruined by this fearful problem.

The second worry comes with breakfast daily. Who is to use the car during

the day? The day being balmy, I had thought of going to town in it,

especially as I wanted to make a call on the way home. My wife, it seems,

had planned to go to the dressmaker. I should have guessed it. Billy,

who has just arrived at the legal age which foolishly permits youth to

endanger the lives and liberty of American citizens, had planned to take

a number of his cronies to St. Mark’s School to see a ball game. Billy,

as can be readily imagined, wins out.

This daily observance takes the entire breakfast period and often leads

to slight feeling. I say slight because I rarely ever secure the car

myself unless it needs repairing.

The last worry may perhaps be more likened to fear. “What next?” I

generally remark—for this third division concerns our friends. In

that happy decade, now but a dream, we used to live in a delightful

community, surrounded by friends who dropped in and then dropped out

again, both happy incidents in our daily life. But now, who has time to

see his neighbors when every one is frantically motoring to some distant

acquaintance miles away? What can you do when some friend at the end of

nowhere invites you to dinner because she knows you have a motor? You go

because your wife explains that this sort of thing is what a motor is for.

Is this not a matter for worry?—to work in an office until five; to

journey home with the knowledge that in exactly thirty minutes you start

out, in a car which needs oiling and when one of the tires should have

more air, for a distant suburb, where you are to meet a number of people

you do not know and never care to see again. That this sort of thing is

going to increase just as long as you have a pesky car is more than a

cause for worry. It is a calamity.

In a trice all this vanished, for I sold my car. I remember hearing the

story of a Southerner whose property was taken from him during the Civil

War and who later was robbed of all the money on his person. He confessed

to a feeling of intense joy and relief, for with his loss of property

went his feeling of responsibility, and care-free he entered the army and

fought a gallant fight.

And so upon that day I walked with elastic tread, head up, chest out,

delighting in the discovery of freedom. I care not that my friends

all possess cars. I’ve had one—several in fact—and I can afford to buy

others, but I am not going to. That is, not yet (and here I remember

my family, somewhat dubiously). I plan to renew the pleasures of daily

rambles over the beautiful hills of my own town. I plan to renew old

friendships with my neighbors near by. I look forward to an occasional

Sunday at home. In short, I picture the joy of being without a motor.

As a matter of fact, however, this vision was short-lived. In the first

place, the ramble over the old familiar hills made me so beastly lame

that my Sunday at home was a painful one, and the day was punctuated

by the complaints of each and every member of the family over the loss

of the car. I ventured out, still painfully, to call upon one or two of

my old neighbors, just for a run in and out again, but they, it seemed,

were out in their motors, and so I returned dejectedly to the sad-faced

group in my own living-room, where we managed to exist until bedtime,

conversing upon our prospective move to the Cape, and what it meant to

the various members of the family to be—as my daughter puts it—a million

miles away from every one with no means of ever leaving the house. And

so it was the Cape and its appeal which broke my defenses, for I must

confess our seasonal trips there were a delightful part of our existence,

to say nothing of the joys of our summer life.

The next day I took an early train to town, and I came home that evening

somewhat sheepish, but reasonably happy, for I came in a new car, which

bids fair to be the best one yet; it is certainly the most expensive.

[Illustration]

“CHANGE AND REST”—SUMMER BARGAINING

Although on the surface Cape Cod seems to offer a haven of refuge to that

much overworked appendage to the modern man, the pocket-book, there are

dotted here and there upon the highways and byways many comparatively

innocent pitfalls.

To a close student of these danger spots, they may be grouped under the

heading “Tea-Rooms, Arts and Crafts Stores, and Antique Shops.”

I know of no greater relief than to escape from town and come to the

Cape. Once there, the daily routine of office, the absence of any

assigned duty, the leisure hours passed in or on the water or idly

knocking about the golf links, tend to merge one day into another, so

that time flashes past at an alarming rate. But every now and again comes

a day when some member of the family suggests that we take the motor and

extend our vision. It is upon such occasions that we test the financial

astuteness of the aborigines.

One never visits the Cape without discovering how effectively the climate

stimulates the appetite. What wonder, therefore, that every village and

hamlet possesses a Tea-Room of varying attraction?

The stop is made and the Tea-Room visited, only to find that the family,

in addition to ordering the tea, with its accompaniment of toast and

cake, or, for the younger members, a bottle of ginger ale or an ice-cream

cone, are bent upon securing a souvenir. The Tea-Room is generally

furnished with an assortment of articles intended for just such gullibles

as ourselves. There are, for instance, baskets of assorted sizes and

colors, for flowers, or fruit, or sewing, or pine cones; in fact for

everything that should be thrown away, but isn’t. We have several such

baskets at home, but that does not prevent some member of the family

from buying another. It will do for a Christmas present. Then there

are varieties of other things made far away and designed to lure the

cheerful motorist, such as charmingly decorated match-cases for elderly

people, noisily painted tin pails for the children, dainty knockers, and

all manner of knick-knacks for the women of the party. The invariable

assortment of what, to a man, seems the essence of uselessness, and yet,

I confess it, attractive to an insidious extent.

The pocket-book is touched, not severely, to be sure, but there is a

perceptible shrinkage as we file out to continue on our harmless junket.

For a few miles we bowl along over a delightfully smooth road and give

ourselves over entirely to the view. Now a long stretch of pine woods

gives just a glimpse of the water glistening through the trees; here and

there a little farmhouse, snugly tucked among a clump of lilacs close

to the road, with visions of larger establishments in the distance,

out toward the sea, the homes of summer residents boldly exposed to

the refreshing southwest wind; then a long stretch of marsh and dune

brilliant in the sun. Suddenly we come upon a more thickly populated

district where many of the old houses have been purchased and renovated

to fit the needs of city people, who, with the assistance of some modern

architect, oftentimes make enticing homes of these structures by the

simple addition of porches and piazzas, with bright touches of paint here

and there on blinds and doors, and the whole garnished well with bright

flowers, climbing roses, and cozy hedges.

It is generally near such a settlement that we come upon the Arts and

Crafts in all their glory.

Compared to the Tea-Room, the Art-Shop is a veritable mine of treasure.

From a variety of toys which would do credit to Schwartz to a complete

set of hand-painted furniture such as one might expect to find in the

window of the largest furniture store in Boston during the months of May

and June, seems a far cry for a small shop occupying a converted bungalow

in a modest Cape town; but this sort of thing exists, and between these

items there is an almost endless list of what for a better term may be

called “specialties,” and even I, who scorn the newness of furnishings

as they are displayed in town, fall a victim first to an exceptionally

soft-toned rag rug, oval in shape and comfortable to the tread, and also

to a set of doilies made of a light, colorful variety of oilcloth with

dainty pattern that my wife says will save washing; and lastly to a pair

of bayberry candles, olive green and a full eighteen inches high, which

it seems to me will give an admirable touch to our living-room mantel.

The shrinkage in the pocket-book is easily discernible; in fact I am led

to say briskly that I think we had better be getting along home, and so

we put our new treasures into the car and proceed homewards by a new

route more inland.

It is always interesting to try the lesser known roads even if they are

a bit rougher. They are little traveled and for this reason pleasanter

in midsummer; one rarely loses the way, for signs are plentiful, and so

we wind about the higher stretches which form the backbone of the Cape,

along sandy roads which at times diminish to mere cart-paths, but at all

times are passable.

Emerging from this forest district on one such excursion, we came quite

suddenly upon the forking of two roads where a clump of neat-looking

farmhouses, a schoolhouse, and a diminutive church indicated a real town.

Here my eye was arrested by the magic sign “Antiques” stuck into the lawn

in front of one of the houses.

While I do not admit the slightest lure in the sign of a Tea-Room except

when hard-pressed by hunger, and but scant attraction in the Art-Shop,

there is something about the word “antique” that whets my appetite

for exploration, and especially so when found in a quiet little hamlet

off the beaten path and probably not familiar to the many hundreds of

tourists whose smoothly running motors of ample proportions bespeak

well-filled pocket-books. Consequently I grasped the emergency brake and

came to a sudden stop in spite of a feeble protest from my daughter and a

heavy sigh from my wife on the back seat.