The Forrest City times., 1893-07-21
A STORY OF THE SEA.
As Told by Crazy Nell to a Sum-
 mer-Day Visitor.

Hc SledIuer Jllue- tdDle Sdiu I do- sengers can land and have one hour to inspect this typical New England fish ing village, with its queer, rambling streets, its ancient houses, it's old wharfs, once the scene of activity, now silent and deserted" etc.
 1 stood at the end of the landing place and looked down the long street with the walk on one side and the har- bor on the other then turned to watch the crowd rush past to take the town by storm, staring in at the windows of the houses, overrunning the quiet little graveyard, intruding everywhere; in fact, doing everything that rude, van dal excursionists do the world over.
 "Desecratorsr' thou ght, ''how shall l avoid you? Here take what I sup pose to be an out-of-the-way trip to an out-of-the-way place to get a little rest. and, if possible, new ideas, but instead of a quiet boat and leisurely sail, you, the great uncouth, overf1owing with animal spirits and lunch baskets, are before me, yea, your crumbs are upon me, and the marks of your children's clammy hands and the sound of their. anguished sobs are even yet mine"
 After which elegant apostrophe desperately struck into a struggling side street, and in few short moments, to my astonishment, they were left far behind.
 stopped and looked about.
 Behind me the town lay, narrow fringe of gray, colorless houses bordering the inner harbor. Here and there thin penciled column of smoke rose straight up as from fire in desert, the air was so still and hot
 Before me a stretch of binding yellow sand, sparkling with glints of amethyst and pearl from the dis integrated sea shells which formed part of the drift that lay heaped up in odd, monstrous, angular dunes, tufted with occasional punches of vivid green wire grass; a veritable sea serpent's lair; domain of desolation.
 Beyond. a sea so calm, so translucent that the horizon line is lost, melted away into the sky.
 monotonous droning filled the ear, reminding one of the cicadas of Prov ence From some shipyard came the dull-measured stroke of caulker's hammer, sounding like the tapping of a woodpecker; again the peep peep.' of sand bird; these are the only evil dences of life. The spell of sleep Is over everything, and l stand looking unconsciously right ahead til the sud den noise of the excursion boat blow ing off steam arouses me, and l see low cottage, the last on the lane, sur rounded by meager yard fenced with driftwood held together by pieces of rigging.
 Before the door is pretentious porch or arbor constructed of the gray, bleach ing ribs of whale. An enterprising morning-glory vine is endeavoring to envelop and clothe it's ghastliness, but it protrudes and stands out from the flabby, sun-lilled wreaths like whited sepulcher. A cobble-stone walk edged with pink conch shells completes the dreary ensemble.
 I am about to turn back to the town, for it is not very pleasant paddling about fin the shifting sands under the broiling sun, when I see little crouched-up figure sitting on a block of wood in the shadow of an old dory, and so much the color of the surroundings as to be al most unnoticed.
 It is a woman, gray and bent with years, looking fixedly at me with queer, canny eyes, her lips moving as she counts the stitches of the knitting in her hands.
 push open the gate on it's rope hinges and enter. asking politely for drink of water. Never stopping she mods toward the we'll. help myself and then sit down near her, remarking: ..Vhis is beautiful day"