sleepy-looking mules constituted the drawing power. There were
also tin horns, some guitars, an accordion, and a quartet of much
praised voices. The hay in the bottom of the wagon was freely
mixed with pine needles, whose prickiness through your hose was
amply compensated for by its delicious fragrance.

After a triumphantly noisy passage down the beach one comes to
the stretch of heavy sand that lies between Pass Christian proper
and Henderson's Point. This is a hard pull for the mules, and
the more ambitious riders get out and walk. Then, after a final
strain through the shifting sands, bravo! the shell road is
reached, and one goes cheering through the pine-trees to
Henderson's Point.

If ever you go to Pass Christian, you must have a fish-fry at
Henderson's Point. It is the pine-thicketed, white-beached
peninsula jutting out from the land, with one side caressed by
the waters of the Sound and the other purred over by the blue
waves of the Bay of St. Louis. Here is the beginning of the
great three-mile trestle bridge to the town of Bay St. Louis, and
to-night from the beach could be seen the lights of the villas
glittering across the Bay like myriads of unsleeping eyes.

Here upon a firm stretch of white sand camped the merry-makers.
Soon a great fire of driftwood and pine cones tossed its flames
defiantly at a radiant moon in the sky, and the fishers were
casting their nets in the sea. The more daring of the girls
waded bare-legged in the water, holding pine-torches, spearing
flounders and peering for soft-shell crabs.