The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1877-07-30
Number 81
The Cruise Of the Princess.
Fighting Fog-very like a HEatton--The
Able Seaman.

On a Wednesday morning in July the good
yacht Princess got underweigh at sunrise in
Lakeman's Harbor on the rocky coast of
Maine.
The bright surface of the level sea was
blurred IN patches by a faint southeast air,
against which the yacht slowly crept to sea-
ward close hauled.
Two tugs puff by US hurrying along to the
rescue of the wrecked brig. 1t is high noon
before we reach Beals Island, aud the Princess
barely squeezes through between the buoys on
the bar, tacking against whirling head tide,
and helped along by the cutter pulled by the
General and Able Seaman. Here the tugs
whistle salute, and looking back we see they
lave pulled the brig off the cruel crags of
Spruce Island, much to the chagrin of the
honest yeoman who had decided to take her
fore cabin for his hen coop.
Now the fog bank which had laid all the
forenoon in the offing rolled in, shutting out
island, cape and ocean, wrapping US up in its
dismal folds, and giving only the same view.
dim, gray, moist, impenetrable, wherever the
eye was turned.
Fauning along, the gray fog becomes black
in single point dead ahead, Nexta white line
of breakers curls beneath the darkness at our
feet, then spruce-crowed crag bursts out of
the blackness overhead, and we drop anchor
under Stave Island. Soon the TUGS puff by US,
towing the wrecked brig into Machiasport rud-
der gone, bottom stove in and full of water
We hear every order from the tugs, hear every
swirl of the rudderless brig as she twists and
turns on her saloors, but see nothing save the
gray drizzle of the gray fog.
As the afternoon wakes old the fog darkness
around US, we get underweigh and steer through
the gloom for Starboard Cove, when the sea
smooths we drop anchor, in the faith that we
have reached the desired haven. Soon the
evening song of robin floats through the
black fog ahead, sheep blsats to port, while
voices and hammering are heard to starborrd.
Our faith was well founded. We had made the
harbor, though we saw it hot.
Atsapper the steward announces that we are
out OF fresh meat. Immediately a syndicate is
formed consisting of the Commodore, Purser
and Able Seaman, who pull off to negotiate a
mutton. We instinctively row to port, where
the beating of the sheep raises savory visions
of steaming mutton chops, land on a sea wall
of pebbles firmly packed by the surf, and di-
vide in our quest for food.
In an hour the Commodore returns with milk
eggs andlbutter, but no mutton; the purser looms
out of the fog with bunch of headless chick
ems in one hand and basket of new potatoes in
the other, but alas, no mutton. The indefatiga-
BILE seaman scours the country for three miles
interviews every prominent inhahitant and
opens the mutton question in vain; but he
despairs not; from breezy hill top he gazes on
the valley beneath; suddenly his eye lights up,
his gaze becomes earnest then fixed. Down in
that lowly vale he espies sturdy yeoman is
suing from his barn and bearing toward his
home something pale, slaughtered. dead and
very like mutton.
Down the hill slope speeds the Able Sea.
man. What an extraordinary large mutton it
is to be sure. will you sell me hind quarter
Of that nice large sheep he blandly asks.
Sheep, interrogates the yeoman. This ere
| is the CARCASS of our calf, but she was good
calf, five weeks old, and has had half the
milk of our COW ever since we made up our
our minds on vealing her, and I'll cut
you OFF what you say for eight cents pound"
The Able Seaman lugs hind quarter to the
boat his attempt to pass it off as the product of
sheep husbandry was signal failure and Nous
reUenonS (SdpS) nl0ut0ns.
The next morning. Thursday dawns in the
| fog bank. AT 10 o'clock the fog scales the
land appears, and just the other side of the bar,
| within gun shot lies the brig with Sam
| Jr Captain and crew on board. Soon he is
| alongside much to the Ielief and Joy Of Sam
| Sen. our pilot. We get under weigh, but before
| sailing half mile the fog shuts down again.
| We make Stave Island, and stand on steering
by compass e. N. E. We hear the paddle
| wheels of steamer; the Lewiston steams ont
| of the fog, salutes with a whistle, which the
yacht acknowledges with gun.
Soon we have the surf on Cross Island
| Then Quaker Head looms darkly over us and
| we shoot into clear sunlight in Cross Island
| Narrows. The dull, dark, damp fog is rolled
/ up into the sky and transfgured into beauti-
| ful cumuli clouds which raise their heads pure
| and white as the angel hosts against the deep
| blue of heaven. How blue is the water, how
brightly it sparkles, how gaiy glides the yacht.
| What pleasant thing it is to see, lust to see
everything, anything but the fog. Yet our joy
| is brief The fog is only burnt off in the Mar
rows. Outside it is as thick as ever and soon
rolls its misty gloom around us again, so we
| drop anchor for the night in the cove of the
| Lite Saving station at Cross Island, Mschias
Bay. wANDERER.