The Monticellonian., 1916-03-02

know you are in good hands and well come.
 At Race Point.
 Or you may choose Race Point for your visit. You find the road a mile and a half from Provincetown lifting slowly, and at the top you stop to look beyond upon the long reach of sand, heaped into curious mounds, with the curving shore and the heav- ing sea beyond. Amid these sand mounds the road winds along, then climbs abruptly to the summit of a cliff, and there at the top are the three gray buildings of the Race Point station.
 It may be your good fortune-or ill fortune, as you choose-to be at Peaked Hill when a storm rages The sand is beating like ocean spray on the windows of the station house and the rain is coming down in sheets. Your experience is likely to be that of a man who a few years ago spent several days at one of these stations. He thus told of the temerity with which he went out into the storm and of his rather speedy return.
 We ate our breakfast by lamplight, as the windows were battened up for safety against the fury of the storm. l noticed the morning patrol washing at the kitchen sink. It's a howler. he said; sand in mouth, throat. ev- erywhere, coming up in bucketfuls; eyes near knocked off me-.
 Peaked Hill in a Storm.
 All this was just what I had hoped for. 1 wanted to see the real thing and no half measures; so after break fast put on my thickest clothes, sup plemented with a borrowed sou west CT. and started out. Started, howev- CT, hardly described my exit from the station. for on opening the door 1 was literally hurled into space. The rain I could stand it was the sand, the ever-shifting sands, that needed stronger physique than mine to keep time to their war dance. This sand can pile up outside your door three feet of a night, can in one day take all the paint off your house and make it white and clean as bleached bones, dows that in few hours they are useless, all transparency gone out of them.
 Up the beach forced myself, en- veloped in this dazzling drift. Blind ed and bewildered by it. buffeted yet supported by the on-rushing torrent of air. I was obliged to own myself beaten this time; my face was suffer ing as if cut by knives I forced my way back with even greater difficulty, for the wind was off shore. I entered the house once more with gratitude. The men said nothing about my speedy return; one merely muttered to another: No need for the lad to punish himself <"
 The Men and Their Lives.
 If you can ingratiate yourself with these men and stay at a station for several days, you will get a rather complete notion of the life they lead and the kind of men they are, and of the rescues they have accomplished.
 The guardsmen are as class weatherbeaten and strapping fellows, recruited largely from the Grand Banks and Cape Cod fishermen. Many of them commanded vessels on the Banks before entering the service. Most of them also have been local pilots. Therefore they are very famil- far with the waters and coasts to which they are assigned, and in case of war they would be likely to be very valuable because of their local knowledge and their general all-round ability
 Theirs is a military service. The guardsmen are actually enlisted, for year at time in every case. with the privilege of re-enlisting within a few days after the expiration of their time, when the service would be re- garded as continuous. Many of the