The Birmingham age-herald., 1904-08-02
Rumors that Dan" sully will attempt
From the New York Times.

N OWN at Barnegat, where the n1r heavy Atlantic breakers roar per-
 0 petual thunder and where the great dunes give testimony to the force of the winds that everlasting sweep the barren lowlying coast. is an ocean grave yard.
 In a wel-kept garden, whose green lawns are bordered. like Contrary Marys, with cookie shells all in a row, are set up like so many tombstones the name boards of many tall ship that has pound- ed herself to place on the treacherous shoals. Here. too, stand, like silent sem tinels, tall fgureheads. All day they gaze seaward with their dead eyes. If they could only speak!
 But, as the next best thing, the owner of the haven of derelicts is not at all un- willing to tell what he knows of the his- tory of each of his collections. Of some the story can never be told. His name Is James Paddock. Several years ago MT. Paddock, who was originally a Western CT, made his pile" and started out to see the world. In the course of his wander ings he came to Barnegat Just why the place appealed to him he can't exactly put into words himself But there was something in the great sweep of sea and sand and marsh that attracted him, and close by the famous lighthouse he built him a house upon the sand.
 That year the Hiram Wills a schooner bound south with Maine lumber, blunder- ed ashore one wild night, and the next morning the beach was strewn with wreckage. Among the jetsam was a great figure, long-bearded and grim. presuma- bly, a counterpart presentment of MT. Wills in the flesh. However that might be, there was something in the face, "a sea look.'' says MT. Paddock, that att tracted him, and when the survivors of the wreck turned their faces to the north looking for another ship, Hiram Wills was planted in James Haddock' s gerden, his face with its eager eyes turned to- ward the sea, and close beside it was set up the board that bore the name of the ill-fated craft.
 That winter was a wild one. Small schoonerS pig tramp steamers, stall "deep-water" craft were driven ashore all along the coast, and where their bones lay was James Haddock searching for fresh monuments for his ocean grave yard. He was indefatigable in his quest. Fifty, a hundred, two hundred miles, it made-no difference. There seemed to be some strange affinity between him and the battered carcasses that had given up their eSistences in the wild music of the storm on rock or treacherous shoal
 So as the years went by 'tombstones'' began to stand thick in the garden that James Haddock battled for with the drifting sand. He, too. began to store up a great mass of ocean-lore. On winter nights when the driftwood fire roared in the open fireplace and lighted up fitfully the sea things" with which the room was hung and fitted 1t was good to sit with the owner of the place. and while the wind shrieked and the hail beat among the sea gravestones outside to lis- ten to his tales of the Barnegat coast
 Perhaps your host will open a tall cabi- net In one corner of the room. and if he does you are In luck. The firelight is flashed back by score of odd and curi- ous things that repose on it's shelves. Knives there are that have been