called "Vagabond's Rest," and a haven of rest and peace and
content it certainly proved for many years to the Davis
family. From here it was that my father started forth in the
early mornings on his all-day fishing excursions, while my
mother sat on the sunlit porch and wrote novels and mended the
badly rent garments of her very active sons. After a
seven-o'clock breakfast at the Curtis House our energies never
ceased until night closed in on us and from sheer exhaustion
we dropped unconscious into our patch-quilted cots. All day
long we swam or rowed, or sailed, or played ball, or camped
out, or ate enormous meals--anything so long as our activities
were ceaseless and our breathing apparatus given no rest.
About a mile up the river there was an island--it's a very
small, prettily wooded, sandy-beached little place, but it
seemed big enough in those days. Robert Louis Stevenson made
it famous by rechristening it Treasure Island, and writing the
new name and his own on a bulkhead that had been built to
shore up one of its fast disappearing sandy banks. But that
is very modern history and to us it has always been "The
Island." In our day, long before Stevenson had ever heard of
the Manasquan, Richard and I had discovered this tight little
piece of land, found great treasures there, and, hand in hand,
had slept in a six-by-six tent while the lions and tigers
growled at us from the surrounding forests.

As I recall these days of my boyhood I find the recollections
of our life at Point Pleasant much more distinct than those we
spent in Philadelphia. For Richard these days were especially
welcome. They meant a respite from the studies which were a
constant menace to himself and his parents; and the freedom of