Go again to the wharf in the late afternoon, and watch these same
boats come laboring in against the tide, sunk deep in the water with
their day's catch. See them unload, and spread the nets to dry, and if
you can find one of these grizzled old salts off duty, and he feels so
inclined, he will tell you (between puffs on his short, black pipe)
strange and interesting stories of adventure at sea or of shipwreck on
lonely island.

Then, as the sails are furled, and all made snug aloft and below, and
the boats bob up and down on the long swells, straining at their
moorings, the sun sinks down behind the ocean, leaving the wharf in
shadow. The lights begin to gleam in the city, the tower of the ferry
building gleams like a beacon, outlined with its thousands of
incandescent lights, and the ferryboat takes us across the bay and
home, to dream of queer-shaped sails, of ancient mariners, and the
"Golden City" on the bay.




[Illustration]

The Stake and Rider Fence


I love to let my fancy go wandering where it will,
To the happy days of boyhood, to the meadow and the hill;
To the brooks and quiet places, to the woods that seemed immense,
But they always linger fondly at the stake-and-rider fence.