again, "that air was jes' clear hell, I'll be jiggered ef 't wa'n't! Bate your ole jaw dropped some quick when you see that sail go!"

"I would n't wonder a mite," admitted the skipper. "I know, thinks I right off, Guess this means a fresh crop o' widders there to home, fas' 'nough; but still I knowed ef we could only once make out to git the creetur roun' on t' other tack, we'd have sea room for a spell, anyways, an' p'intin' the way she was then meant the name o' every blame' soul aboard was mud, sure's death an' taxes!"

"Gin'ral Jackson! Yas!" exclaimed Simeon, hastily pulling off his spectacles. "Tracadie would ha' fetched ye up all stannin', spite o' fate!"

"She'd laid her bones to the west'ard o' Tracadie, 'cordin' to the way we was headin'," said the old man. "I knowed that well 'nough, an' so we took chances o' wearin' roun' on the other tack; a nasty, resky job's ever was, too, but the ole Harvester was a hard one to drownd, now I tell ye! Some on 'em made out to git the jib offn her, an' there we was hove to under cluss - reefed fores'l; not much bigger 'n a tablecloth, anyways, but come to talk 'bout carryin' sail! In ten minutes' time after we'd wore ship she would n't carry nothin'! I never see the like o' that for blowin' right out en'ways, not in the whole o' my goin'! Why, she would n't even so much's look at it, but jes' laid ri' down on her broadside mos' hatches to, an' trembled all over!

"An' God knows that ole vess❜l was able, too,- - jes' able 's they make 'em! When that creetur would n't stan' up to it an' take her med'cine like a major, them that would was some scatt'rin', now I tell ye! But this here breeze o' wind was sumpin clean away outen the common run; she was a proper harricane, that's what she was, an' there wa'n't no livin' man could stan' up an' face her for a secon'!"

"We don't 'pear to git many o' them kind o' reg'lar ole-fashioned combustibles now'days," observed Cap'n Job, as the skipper paused to refresh himself with a new quid of tobacco.

"That's a fac'! assented Cap'n Ormsby. "It's seldom ever we git a breeze 't all, now'days, let alone one o' them ole hell-rippers, same 's we used to git!"

"We dunno what a breeze o' win''s like, now'days," resumed Skipper Rufus decisively. "Wal, though, 's I was sayin', our fores'l was 'mos' bran' noo, an' the res' part o' the gear was good, without 't was the mains'l; but we was all lookin' every minute for sumpin to carry away an' disenable her so's't she'd fall off to loo❜ard an' dump the whole bus'niss down on them san' bars Cascumpeque ways there; for when them wusst flaws 'd jump on her, swan to man ef did n't seem more 'n what wood an' iron could stan'! She'd kind o' lay down an' scrouch under 'em, till she'd 'pear to git breath 'nough so's't to stan' up a grain an' buck into it ag'in. Blowed ef I did n't fairly feel sorry for the creetur, seemed though she was tryin' so hard to keep atop o' water!

"H'ever, the way it turned out, she wa'n't spoke for, not that breeze o' win'. It eased up on us a bit in a couple o' hours, an' 'long toward mornin' canted a p'int or two more to the east'ard, an' that, o' course, favored us more 'n a little; so's't the amount o' the story was, when that gale o' win' fin'ly leg-go, we was all o' ten mile to wind'ard o' Miscoe! Yes, sir, that's a fac', an' you kin turn to an' figger out for yourselves 'bout how much leeway that creetur could ha' made! Why, good gorry, man, she must ha' eat to wind'ard ef anythin' that night, when there wa'n't one craf' in a hunnerd but what would ha' slid off to loo'ard same's a blame crab!"

"Oh, she was a proper long-legged. offshore style o' vess'l, she was!" said

Cap'n Job. "But that was a weeked ole breeze o' win', 'cordin' to all tell.

That was when they los' the Bueny Viswa'n't it?"

ty,

"Yas," replied Skipper Rufus. "Ole man Gardner piled her up on the Magdaleens that night, an' los' her whole crowd; every soul on 'em belongin' here to this Cove, too. Come to that, there was eight more o' our 'Merican vess'ls went ashore betwixt Bay Shelore an' Eas' P'int, that time, not countin' them three we lef' to anchor there in the bight. Seems's ef them three mus' cal'lated to ride her out where they was, for I heern tell afterward how the wrackage from 'em was hove up in win'rows on shore dead to loo'ard."

"Them pore devils hung it out too long, an' paid dear for it, too; but I'm thinkin' the ole feller did n't start you out o' that none too soon yourself, neither," said Job. "But now turn to an' give us the res' part o' the yarn, Skip' Rufe. I would n't have Amos here miss hearin' this kind o' afterclap, not for a farm down Eas'!"

"Wal, then," began the old man again, "quick 's ever that breeze o' win' give up, we kep' her off, an' let her go a-flukin' down through Northum❜lan' Strait into Shediac, so's't to git things kind o' tintrivated into shape ag'in 'fore we give it to her to the west'ard. There was half a dezen sail o' vess'ls dragged ashore right there to that harbor, an' comin' down 'long we see more wracks everywheres 'n you could shake a stick

to.

"Wal, when we was fin'ly makin' the run home, we'd got up 'long so's't to sight Isle o' Holt all good an' plain, an' we took one o' these here smoky sou'westers right plumb in the teeth. I let her slam into it en'ways for a spell, but fin❜ly thinks I, Bedide, thinks I, what sense is they, anyways? I jes' took an' down hellum, an' made a harbor 'fore noontime there to Burnt Coat, Swan's Islant; the very same place we'd

bought the vess❜l to that spring, ye rec'lec' ?

"Wal, soon's ever we'd got things all snugged up in good shape aboard, me an' brother Ephe we took a dory an' rowed ashore to the settlemint, by way o' killin' time like. There was an ole feller kep' the store an' pos' office there to the w'arft, an' seems's though he knowed our vess'l quick 's ever she poked her nose in past the light. We set there talkin' 'long o' him a spell, an' seems's ef he was ter'ble anxious to hear what about her, how we'd made it into her so fur; an' a sight o' questions he put to us, that ole feller did, till all to once he up an' says right out, Cap'n,' 's'e to me, 'I know 't ain't the fus' damn mite o' my bus'niss,' 's 'e, but,' 's 'e, 'I should r'ally like to ask ef ever ye see ary works outen the gin'ral run sence you've been goin' into that there schooner?

"Whew!" whistled the man "from up back here," softly. Cap'n Job delivered a resounding slap upon his thigh, and removed the pipe from his mouth to speak; but Skip' Rufe continued:

"Yas, siree! Them's his very words! Wal, quick 's ever he up an' says that air, why, Ephe an' me commenced to git the loom o' the lan' right away, an' fin'ly we turned to an' give the ole feller the whole blame' hist'ry o' the bus'niss, so fur's we knowed it; an' come to take an' pump him a grain, he give us to un'stan' how there was any gris' o' folks right there to Burnt Coat that swore they see ole Shorty' McClintock, seems's ef that was a nickname like o' hisn, them folks swore how that they see him a-stannin' anchor watch all soul 'lone aboard the Harvester, by nighttimes, while she was layin' there into the harbor, inside a fortni't after he'd been planted six foot un'neath the sod up back o' the meetin' house there; an''t was jes' sich works sp'iled the sale on her all down through them parts.

--

"Now," the skipper went on, raising his voice as one or two of his hearers

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now,

again threatened to interrupt, 'cordin' to all tell down there to Burnt Coat, 't was ole man McClintock we see ourselves twice aboard the vess'l that trip, an''t was ole man McClintock that

up an' give us warnin' to git out o' the bight o' the islant that night!

"Ef 't wa'n't him, who 'n the name o' Sam Hyde was it? You jes' turn to an' tell, some o' you knowin' ones!" George S. Wasson.

In our country there has been long familiar, in actual life and in tradition, a corporate woman known as "the New England woman." Doubtless, when she landed upon our shores, some two hundred and fifty years ago, she was a hearty, even-minded, rosy-cheeked, fullfleshed English lass. Once here, in her physical and mental make-up, under pioneer conditions and influenced by our electric climate, a differentiation began, an unconscious individualizing of her self: this was far, far back in the time of the Pilgrim mothers. In this process she developed certain characteristics which are weakly human, intensely feminine, and again passing the fabled heroism of saints in self-devotion. Just what these qualities were, and why they grew, is worth considering before—in the bustle of another century and its elements entirely foreign to her primitive and elevated spirit — she has passed from view and is quite forgotten.

In the cities of to-day she is an exotic. In the small towns she is hardly indigenous. Of her many homes, from the close-knit forests of Maine to the hot sands of Monterey, that community of villages which was formerly New England is her habitat. She has always been most at home in the narrow village of her forbears, where the church and school were in simpler days, and still at times are, — even to us measuring only with Pactolian sands in our hourglasses, the powers oftenest quoted and most revered. From these sources the larger

part of herself, the part that does not live by bread alone, was nourished.

It was in the quiet seclusion of the white homes of these villages that in past generations she gained her ideals of life. Such a home imposed what to women of the world at large might be inanity. But, with a self-limitation almost Greek, she saw within those clapboard walls things dearest to a woman's soul: a pure and sober family life, a husband's protective spirit, the birth and growth of children, neighborly service

keenly dear to her for all whose lives should come within touch of her active hands, and an old age guarded by the devotion of those to whom she had given her activities. To this should be added another gift of the gods which this woman ever bore in mind with calmness: a secluded ground, shaded by hemlocks or willows, where should stand the headstone marking her dust, over which violets should blossom to freshening winds, and robin call to mate in the resurrection time of spring, and in the dim corners of which ghostly Indian pipes should rise from velvet mould to meet the summer's fervency.

Under such conditions and in such homes she had her growth. The tasks that engaged her hands were many, for at all times she was indefatigable in what Plato calls women's work, và ĕvdov. She rose while it was yet night; she looked well to the ways of her household, and eat not the bread of idleness. In housekeeping — which in her conser

vative neighborhood and among her primary values meant, almost up to this hour, not directing nor helping hired people in heaviest labors, but rather all that the phrase implied in pioneer days her energies were spent: herself cooking; herself spinning the thread and weaving, cutting out and sewing all family garments and household linen; herself preserving flesh, fish, and fruits. To this she added the making of yeast, candles, and soap for her household, their butter and cheese, perhaps also these foods for market sale, — at times their eider, and even elderberry wine for their company, of as fine a color and distinguished a flavor as the gooseberry which the wife of immortal Dr. Primrose offered her guests. Abigail Adams herself testifies that she made her own soap, in her early days at Braintree, and chopped the wood with which she kindled her fires. In such accomplishments she was one of a great sisterhood, thousands of whom served before and thousands after her. These women rarely told such activities in their letters, and rarely, too, I think, to their diaries; for their fingers fitted a quill but awkwardly after a day with distaff or butter-moulding.

These duties were of the external world, mainly mechanical and routine, and they would have permitted heran untiring materialist in all things workable by hands—to go many ways in the wanderings of thought, if grace, flexibility, and warmth had consorted with the Puritan idea of beauty. She had come to be an idealist in all things having to do with the spirit. Nevertheless, as things stood, she had but one mental path.

The powers about her were theocratic. They held in their hands her life and death in all physical things, and her life and death per omnia sæcula sæculorum. They held the right to whisper approval or to publish condemnation. Her eager, active spirit was fed by sermons and ex

hortations to self-examination. Nothing else was offered. On Sundays and in midweek she was warned by these teachers, to whom everybody yielded, to whom in her childhood she had been taught to drop a wayside curtsy, that she should ever be examining head and heart to escape everlasting fire, and that she should endure so to conduct her devoted life as to appease the anger of a God as vindictive as the very ecclesiasts themselves. No escape or reaction was possible. The effect of all this upon a spirit so active, pliant, and sensitive is evident. The sole way open to her was the road to introspection.

Even those of the community whose life duties took them out in their world, and who were naturally more objective than women, even the men, under such conditions, grew self-examining to the degree of a proverb: "The bother with the Yankee is that he rubs badly at the juncture of the soul and body."

τος.

In such a life as this first arose the subjective characteristics at which so many gibes have been written, so many flings spoken; at which so many burly sides have shaken with laughter, doßeoLike almost every dwarfed or distorted thing in the active practical world, "New England subjectivity" is a result of the shortsightedness of men, and the wrongs they have done one another. Nowadays, in a more objective life, this accent of the ego is pronounced irritating. But God's sequence is apt to be irritating.

The New England woman's subjectivity is a result of what has been, — the enslaving by chance, the control by circumstance, of a thing flexible, pliant, ductile (in this case a hypersensitive soul), and its endeavor to shape itself to certain lines and forms. Cut off from the larger world, she was forced into the smaller. Her mind must have field and exercise for its natural activity and constructiveness. Its native field was the macrocosm; deprived of that, it

turned and fed upon itself in the micro

cosm.

But scattered far and wide over the granitic soil of New England there have been the women unmarried. Through the seafaring life of the men, through the adventures of the pioneer enchanting the hot-blooded and daring, through the coaxing away of sturdy youthful muscle by the limitless fat lands lying to the west, through the siren voice of the cities, and also through the unutterable loss of men in war, these less fortunate women - the unmarried — have in all New England life been many. All the rounding and relaxing grace and charm which lie between maid and man they knew only in their fancy. Love might spring, but its growth was rudimentary. Their life was not fulfilled. There were many such spinners.

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These women, pertinacious at their tasks, dreamed dreams of what could never be realized. They came to talk much of moods and sensations; natu

rally they would have moods. Human nature will have its confidant, and naturally they talked to one another more freely than to their married sisters. trospection plus introspection again. A life vacuous in external events and interrupted by no masculine practicality

where fluttering nerves were never counterpoised by steady muscle-afforded its every development.

And expression of their religious life granted no outlet to these natures, no goodly work direct upon humankind. The Reformation, whatever else it did for the freedom of the intellect, denied liberty and individual choice to women. Puritanism was the child of the Reformation. Like all religions reacting from the degradations and abuses of the Middle Ages, for women it discountenanced community life. Not for active ends, nor of a certainty for contemplative, were women to hive. In her simple home, and by making the best of spare moments, the undirected impulse of the spin

ster produced penwipers for the heathen and slippers for the dominie. But there was, we may say, no dignified, constructive human expression for the childless and husbandless woman. Because of this a dynamo force for good was wasted through centuries, and many thousands of lives were blighted.

In New England this theology ruled, as we have said, with an iron and tyrannous hand. It published the axiom, and soon put it in men's mouths, that the only outlet for women's activities was marriage. No matter if truth to the loftiest ideals kept her single, a woman unmarried, from a Garden of Eden point of view and the pronunciamento of the average citizen, was not fulfilling the end for which women were made, she was not child-bearing.

In this great spinster class, dominated by such a voice, we may physiologically expect to find an excess of the neurotic, altruistic type, women sickened and extremists, because their nature was unbalanced and astray. They found a positive joy in self-negation and self-sacrifice, and evidenced in the perturbations and struggles of family life a patience, a dumb endurance, which the humanity about them, and even that of a later day, could not comprehend, and commonly translated into apathy or unsensitiveness. The legendary fervor and devotion of the saints of other days pale before their self-denying discipline. But instead of gaining, as in the medieval faith, the applause of contemporaries, and, as in those earlier days, inciting veneration and enthusiasm as a "holy person," the modern sister, who lived in her small world very generally an upper servant in a married brother's or sister's family, heard reference to herself in many phrases turning upon her chastity. Her very classifica tion in the current vernacular turned upon her condition of sex. And at last she witnessed for her class an economic de signation, the essence of vulgarity and the consummation of insolence, "super

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