One August evening of the year 1743 a boat lay as if anchored in the
beautiful Piscataqua; her sail seemed swung only to show its whiteness
in the bright moonlight. Every cord upon it hung lifeless, serving only
the purpose of pictured lines, one silvered in the light, the dark
shadow of the other traced in clear outlines on the sail. The swash of
the waves against the side of the boat was too slight to sway it; the
sheet dipped in the water and swung almost imperceptibly, while now and
then a few straws floated against it and caught there. The moon, high in
the heavens, gave pearly tints to the clouds that floated near it; the
pines on the shore flung dark masses against the oaks and maples, or
stood as a Rembrandt background for the boughs of the trees on which the
moonlight fell, or for some ghostly procession of the white birch
trunks. The water, in the shadows as dark and smooth as a Claude
Lorraine glass, showed far off in the moonlight faint quivers of its
surface here and there, as if the breeze so longed for were coming to
the idle boat. But it was too far off, or too faint, for it spent itself
before reaching the watchers there, although at the symptoms one of them
rose with great show of solemnity, and making a trumpet of his hands,
blew vigorously against the sail. But neither these movements nor the
concerts of whistling were successful. At last another of the company
leaning over the side of the boat busied himself with the sheet.

"I'll tell you the reason this boat don't go," he said, gravely, "the
rope was all twisted. I've straightened it out, and taken off the
straws."

A burst of laughter greeted him as he turned around his face, still
grave, but his dark eyes, roving from one to another, their laughing