d her baby islet! But when he realized just
what the job in question was, he changed his mind about its being a
small one. Our cavalcade was only an insignificant unit (as they say in
war) among the force of motors which mobilized as the moment for the
boat's departure came. There was a regular regiment at last; also lots
of horses drawing old-fashioned gigs and quite smart "buggies," and
capacious carts; crowds of passengers on foot, women and children,
young men and girls--so _pretty_, some of the shopgirls on holiday
pointed out to us by the man we bought tickets of. They might have been
princesses by their exactly right clothes (right at first glance,
anyhow) and their proud air, if you hadn't seen them chewing gum and
heard them saying "Huh?" to their young men. By the way, that ticket man
was the _dearest_ old thing, who very likely had never seen New York. He
grew his beard under his chin like a kind of muffler, and said
broad-mindedly while we were waiting that he didn't care "_what_
people's religion was, so long as they went to their church twice every
Sunday, rain or shine." We tried to look as if _we_ did, because we
liked him so much. He'd been a sailor in his day, and was proud of
Greenport for its past--a fascinating, whaling past.

In spite of the crowd (bigger I'm sure than aboard the Ark, packed
though it was to supply a new world with living creatures) there was
room for us all, and there was room in the bay for our hugeness, among
the flight of snow-white butterflies pretending to be sailboats.

Six minutes getting across; and then we touched at a gay little
landing-place as different from that of serious, serene Greenport as the
ex-sailor's own church would be from a _the dansant_. I suppose when
other sea-going men of old made money and grew just a little, _little_
bit frivolous, they thought no more of whales, but moved across that
bright stretch of water and spent their riches building pretty houses
for their children to enjoy. "Shelter Island" is a charming name for a
place to rest in after a strenuous life, don't you think? And the homes
to forget whales in are peaceful as days of Indian Summer after storms.
The finest, and perhaps the newest ones, which have nothing to do with
memories of adventure with grand old monsters of the deep, are on
Shelter Island Heights. But I should rather live lower down in some
house yellow as a pat of butter, under great drooping trees. By the way,
Shelter Isla