tle, an' let 'em have their way 'bout it. These
plaguey dog-fish kind of worry 'em." Mr. Tilley pronounced the last
sentence with much sympathy, as if he looked upon himself as a true
friend of all the haddock and codfish that lived on the fishing grounds,
and so we parted.

Later in the afternoon I went along the beach again until I came to
the foot of Mr. Tilley's land, and found his rough track across the
cobblestones and rocks to the field edge, where there was a heavy piece
of old wreck timber, like a ship's bone, full of tree-nails. From this a
little footpath, narrow with one man's treading, led up across the small
green field that made Mr. Tilley's whole estate, except a straggling
pasture that tilted on edge up the steep hillside beyond the house and
road. I could hear the tinkle-tankle of a cow-bell somewhere among the
spruces by which the pasture was being walked over and forested from
every side; it was likely to be called the wood lot before long, but the
field was unmolested. I could not see a bush or a brier anywhere within
its walls, and hardly a stray pebble showed itself. This was most
surprising in that country of firm ledges, and scattered stones which
all the walls that industry could devise had hardly begun to clear
away off the land. In the narrow field I noticed some stout stakes,
apparently planted at random in the grass and among the hills of
potatoes, but carefully painted yellow and white to match the house, a
neat sharp-edged little dwelling, which looked strangely modern for its
owner. I should have much sooner believed that the smart young wholesale
egg merchant of the Landing was its occupant than Mr. Tilley, since a
man's house is really but his larger body, and expresses in a way his
nature and character.

I went up the field, following the smooth little path to the side door.
As for using the front door, that was a matter of great ceremony; the
long grass grew close against the high stone step, and a snowberry bush
leaned over it, top-heavy with the weight of a morning-glory vine that
had managed to take what the fishermen might call a half hitch about
the door-knob. Elijah Tilley came to the side door to receive me; he was
knitting a blue yarn stocking without looking on, and was warmly
dressed for the season in a thick blue flannel shirt with white crockery
buttons, a faded waistcoat and trousers heavily patched at the knees.
These were not his fishing clothes. There was something