Everything is peaceful. The sound of the shipyard axes and hammers can
be heard for miles over the quiet waters of the bay. In the sunny lane
which follows the line of the shore, and along which a few shops
struggle in happy-go-lucky disorder, may be heard the voices and noises
of the workers at their work. Water gurgling about the stanchions of the
docks, the whistle of some fisherman as he dawdles over his nets, or
puts his fish ashore, the whirr of the single high-power sewing machine
in the sail-loft, often mingle in a pleasant harmony, and invite the
mind to repose and speculation.

I was in a most examining and critical mood that summer, looking into
the nature and significance of many things, and was sitting one day in
the shed of the maker of sailboats, where a half-dozen characters of the
village were gathered, when some turn in the conversation brought up the
nature of man. He is queer, he is restless; life is not so very much
when you come to look upon many phases of it.

"Did any of you ever know a contented man?" I inquired idly, merely for
the sake of something to say.

There was silence for a moment, and one after another met my roving
glance with a thoughtful, self-involved and retrospective eye.

Old Mr. Main was the first to answer.

"Yes, I did. One."

"So did I," put in the sailboat maker, as he stopped in his work to
think about it.