There is no part of the New England shores so charming as the coast of Maine. From Cape Elizabeth on the west to Quoddy Head on the east, there are over a thousand large and small islands, nearly all of which are of bold formation and most of them wholly or in part covered with a growth of spruce and fir. The shores of these islands, as well as the mainland, are mainly rock-ribbed, with many high cliffs, at the foot of which the ocean surges beat unceasingly. Deep fissures and sea caverns into which the green water, changed to yeasty foam, ever churns and rushes by day and night, are common; and when storms arise it bellows and roars like an angry bull. Here the clinging rock-weeds and broad kelpie float and wave idly or are lashed in anger by the waves that seem always trying to tear them loose from the rocks.

Locked in the embrace of these bold shores are countless coves, inlets and harbors, many so land-locked that never a ripple disturbs their surface, and here the fishhawk and seagull seek their food and build their nests undisturbed by man. No sound except the unceasing murmur of the winds in the fir trees, or the low-voiced neighboring ocean, breaks the stillness. Along the rocky shore and over these green-clad cliffs one may wander for days in absolute solitude, seeing or hearing naught of humanity or the handiwork of man. Here may be found the wondrous magic and mystery of the sea in all its moods-pathetic, peaceful or grand, and its society, where none intrude. Here, too, wedged among the wave-washed rocks, can be found many a tale of shipwreck, despair and death, or whispers of luxuriant life in tropical lands, and all the flotsam and jetsam of the ocean, cast ashore to bleach like bones in a desert, year in and year out.

Safe harbors are numerous, though not easy of access, for sunken ledges or merciless reefs guard them from approach. In places are deep bays, notably Somes Sound, connected with the ocean by an inlet a few rods wide. Only the accessible harbors have been utilized by man, and but few of these are, even to-day. At the head of one of these, and forming the only safe harbor of the Isle au Haut, there clustered a little fishing hamlet forty years ago, the largest house of which was one occupied by Captain Obed Pullen, a retired sea captain, his wife, two sons-Frank and Obed, Jr., and one daughter.

The house was a white, square, two-story one with a flat roof built with bulwarks around it, having portholes like those of a man-of-war. There was a small yard in front surrounded by a board fence, and on a knoll just back of the house was a small enclosure containing a few white headstones. Captain Pullen, having amassed sufficient of this world’s goods, lived in peaceful seclusion, far removed from the worldly strife he wished to avoid. With his two sons, he tilled a few acres of land. He fished a little as a pastime, and visited the mainland but seldom. He was a blunt-spoken, but warm-hearted man, with shaggy white beard and hair, and a voice and handshake as hearty as a gale of wind.

To this abode of simple cordiality and good will, one summer day, and by invitation of the old captain’s son Frank, came our battle-scarred and love-lorn friend Manson. He and young Pullen had much in common, for both loved the sea, and their friendship, formed when both were environed by the dangers of war, made them now the most affectionate of friends. Manson found himself at once welcomed by the entire family as a valued friend and one whom they all seemed proud to entertain.

“We don’t put on style down here,” said the old captain to him at the first meal, and in a voice that made the dishes rattle, “but we’re right glad to see ye, and we’ll give ye some fun if the wind holds out. Be ye fond o’ fishin’?”

As fishing was a mania with Manson, and as his opportunities had been limited to the peaceful seclusion of brooks, or the calm waters of mill ponds, it is needless to say that he admitted he was fond of that sport.

“Frank tells me,” continued the captain with blunt directness, “that ye have got a sweetheart ye left to come here visitin’, but ye best quit thinkin’ ’bout her if ye go fishin’.”

Whether our young friend did or not does not matter; but it is certain that the days which followed, passed amid such surroundings, were red letter ones in his history. With two young men of about his own age for companions, a trim and staunch fishing sloop with cabin and cooking conveniences ready at hand, and nothing to do but sail and fish, or explore the wild shores and fir-clad islands all about, was like a new world to him. One day it was a fishing trip and a chowder party composed of the entire family; and the next a frolic in an island grove where the young men dug clams on a bit of sandy shore and afterward steamed them among the rocks. Such opportunities were new to him, and with kind friends near, and a feeling that he was thoroughly welcome in their home added to the marvel of enchantment; while all about, the ever-present sea made him almost forget the vexing problem of his future.

“It’s like a visit to a fairy land,” he said one day to his friend Frank, as they were slowly drifting past a low green island. It was nearly sundown, and the breeze had almost died away, so that the sloop barely moved through the unruffled waters and every tree and rock on the near-by shore was reflected clear and distinct. “To me,” he continued, “it is an entrance into an old-time wonder world, and to sail for hours among these islands or in sight of shores where not a house or even a fish hut is visible, makes it seem as if we were explorers first visiting a new land. When we pass the entrance to some deep cove I half expect to see an Indian paddling a canoe up into it, or spy a deer watching us out of a thicket. My ideas of the ocean have been obtained where islands are few, and passing ships or houses along shore are always visible. Here it is so solitary. We seldom see a vessel and not more than two or three small craft in an all day’s cruise.”

“That’s the best of it,” explained Frank, “you have it all to yourself. But it’s different in winter. You have too much of it to yourself then. Altogether too much, for we are prisoners on the island for weeks at a time, and that graveyard up back of the house makes it seem worse. I wish you could come down here next fall and stay all winter. We don’t do a thing but eat and sleep or go ashore once a month for papers, and”-laughing-“just think of what a good chance you would have to get acquainted with your wife!”

Manson was silent. The suggestion opened a vein of vexatious thought in connection with his dilemma that was not pleasant.

“Just think it over,” continued Frank, not noticing his silence; “dad and mother would be ever so glad to have you, and so would sis, if your sweetheart ain’t stuck up; is she?”

“No,” replied Manson, “she’s just a sensible, everyday sort of a girl, and as sweet and loving as you can imagine. Your folks would like her, I think, and I am sure she would like them.”

“Why didn’t you splice and bring her along in the first place?” said Frank, laughing. “I wish you had, and then you wouldn’t be looking for Injuns in every cove. Do you remember the night we saw a man walking on fog and thought it was a ghost, and how ten minutes after that same ghost took a shot at us?”

“I do,” answered Manson, looking serious as the memory of that experience came back, “and I recall the next night, too, when we sat by the camp fire and swapped ghost stories, and you told me about a haunted island down here. Where is it?”

“Do you see that little patch of green away out beyond Spoon Island?” answered Frank, pointing seaward. “Well, that’s the famous Pocket Island that I told you about, and the abiding-place of not only a bellowing bull’s ghost, but lots of others as well. When we are likely to have a good spell of weather I am going to take you out there and” (with a laugh) “give you a chance to satisfy your mania for ghost hunting, for I believe that is one of your hobbies.”

“Well, not so much as it was when we carried a musket,” said Manson, “for I am not as superstitious as I was then. Still, I want to see your haunted island just the same and hear that strange noise. Is there a harbor there where we can run in?”

“Yes, and a queer freak of nature it is, too,” answered Frank, “but I do not know the channel in, and would not dare to try to enter. All I can do is to wait for a fair day and lay outside while Obed takes you ashore.”

That night when Manson had retired he lay awake a long time thinking over the interesting impressions made upon him by his visit, and especially the suggestion that he at some time should bring Liddy down here as his wife! That alone was such an entrancing thought that he could not go to sleep when he tried to. What a new world it would be to take her into, and what supreme delight to show her these beautiful islands and placid coves, and the bold cliffs at the foot of which the white-crested billows were beating! How he would enjoy seeing her open her big, blue eyes with wonder and sweet surprise at all the grand and beautiful bits of scenery and all the magic and mystery of the ocean, far removed from man!

“Some day I will bring her here,” he thought, and then he fell asleep and dreamed he heard the ominous sound of some monster bellowing in anger.