promontory on that ragged coast swept
by the winds of the untamed Atlantic.

I could describe the Bay of St. Ann more minutely and graphically, if it
were desirable to do so; but I trust that enough has been said to make
the traveler wish to go there. I more unreservedly urge him to go there,
because we did not go, and we should feel no responsibility for his
liking or disliking. He will go upon the recommendation of two gentlemen
of taste and travel whom we met at Baddeck, residents of Maine and
familiar with most of the odd and striking combinations of land and
water in coast scenery. When a Maine man admits that there is any place
finer than Mt. Desert, it is worth making a note of.

On Monday we went a-fishing. Davie hitched to a rattling wagon something
that he called a horse, a small, rough animal with a great deal of "go"
in him, if he could be coaxed to show it. For the first half-hour
he went mostly in a circle in front of the inn, moving indifferently
backwards or forwards, perfectly willing to go down the road, but
refusing to start along the bay in the direction of Middle River. Of
course a crowd collected to give advice and make remarks, and women
appeared at the doors and windows of adjacent houses. Davie said he did
n't care anything about the conduct of the horse,--he could start him
after a while,--but he did n't like to have all the town looking at
him, especially the girls; and besides, such an exhibition affected the
market value of the horse. We sat in the wagon circling round and round,
sometimes in the ditch and sometimes out of it, and Davie "whaled" the
horse with his whip and abused him with his tongue. It was a pleasant
day, and the spectators increased.

There are two ways of managing a balky horse. My companion knew one of
them and I the other. His method is to sit quietly in the wagon, and at
short intervals throw a small pebble at the horse. The theory is that
these repeated sudden annoyances will operate on a horse's mind, and he
will try to escape them by going on. The spectators supplied my friend
with stones, and he pelted the horse with measured gentleness. Probably
the horse understood this method, for he did not notice the attack at
all. My plan was to speak gently to the horse, requesting him to go, and
then to follow the refusal by one sudden, sharp cut of the lash; to wait
a moment, and then repeat the operation. The dread of the coming lash
after the gentle word will start any