non balls are scattered about within the
enclosure, and many old-fashioned guns have been rusting away in peace
for the past decade. The interior of the fortress is grass-grown, and
two lonesome sentinels in faded regalia guard this useless property, and
draw their regular wages from generous Uncle Sam. They are very
important in their manner, and allow no intruders on the premises. A few
years ago two Harvard students ventured within the sacred walls, and one
of them was fatally shot by the over-zealous officer. Popham Beach has
become a favorite summer resort within the past few years, and boasts
two hotels, and daily mails, and steamers to the outside world.

[Illustration: Pond Island Light.]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: FORT POPHAM.]

[Illustration: THE STORE, FORT POPHAM.]

Fishing forms the chief industry among the natives, although, in years
past, when the shipping of ice became extensive on the river, and
brought immense numbers of vessels here, piloting at once became a great
source of profit. In those days bright visions of wealth suddenly
dazzled their eyes, but the bonanza soon faded, for the advent of the
tugboats dispelled their dream, and ruined their financial calculations.
The fishing-smacks then tossed idly at their moorings for weeks at a
time, and the straggling garden patches among the rocks passed
unnoticed, while the owners were rowing seaward in search for incoming
vessels. Oftentimes they embarked in their wherries soon after midnight,
and early morn found them five or six miles from shore. Everybody
suddenly developed into an experienced navigator, and curious schemes
were originated in the endeavor to outwit each other. This vocation is
no longer profitable, and the natives have relapsed into their former
monotony. So far away from the sound of a church-bell, it would be no
easy matter to tell when the Sabbath morn arrives, were it not for the
radical change that comes over these hardy longshoremen. The clatter and
jingle of the ponderous family razor, as it flies back and forth on the
time-worn strap suspended from the kitchen mantlepiece, is the first
signal that ushers in the day. The change is an outward one at least,
for then the "biled" shirt with high dickey, the long-tailed black coat,
and ancient "stovepipe" take the place of the familiar reefer and
sou'wester. The low hum of hymns is heard, and refrains from "I want to
be a Daniel" float out on the air. Gradually increasing