the pans of the ponds, which were of iron, and caused them to settle.  I did not remember to have read of this.  Innumerable gulls used to resort to them; but the large gulls were now very scarce, for, as he said, the English robbed their nests far in the North, where they breed.  He remembered well when gulls were taken in the gull-house, and when small birds were killed by means of a frying-pan and fire at night.  His father once lost a valuable horse from this cause.  A party from Wellfleet having lighted their fire for this purpose, one dark night, on Billingsgate Island, twenty horses which were pastured there, and this colt among them, being frightened by it, and endeavoring in the dark to cross the passage which separated them from the neighboring beach, and which was then fordable at low tide, were all swept out to sea and drowned.  I observed that many horses were still turned out to pasture all summer on the islands and beaches in Wellfleet, Eastham, and Orleans, as a kind of common.  He also described the killing of what he called “wild hens” here, after they had gone to roost in the woods, when he was a boy.  Perhaps they were “Prairie hens” (pinnated grouse).

He liked the beach pea, (Lathyrus maritimus,) cooked green, as well as the cultivated.  He had seen them growing very abundantly in Newfoundland, where also the inhabitants ate them, but he had never been able to obtain any ripe for seed.  We read, under the head of Chatham, that, “in 1555, during a time of great scarcity, the people about Orford, in Sussex (England) were preserved from perishing by eating the seeds of this plant, which grew there in great abundance on the sea-coast.  Cows, horses, sheep, and goats eat it.”  But the writer who quoted this could not learn that they had ever been used in Barnstable County.

He had been a voyager, then?

Oh, he had been about the world in his day.  He once considered himself a pilot for all our coast; but now, they had changed the names so, he might be bothered.

He gave us to taste what he called the Summer Sweeting, a pleasant apple which he raised, and frequently grafted from, but had never seen growing elsewhere, except once,—­three trees on Newfoundland, or at the Bay of Chaleur, I forget which, as he was sailing by.  He was sure that he could tell the tree at a distance.

At length the fool, whom my companion called the wizard, came in, muttering between his teeth, “Damn book-peddlers,—­all the time talking about books.  Better do something.  Damn ’em, I’ll shoot ’em.  Got a doctor down here.  Damn him, I’ll get a gun and shoot him”; never once holding up his head.  Whereat the old man stood up and said in a loud voice, as if he were accustomed to command, and this was not the first time he had been obliged to exert his authority there,—­“John, go sit down, mind your business,—­we’ve heard you talk before,—­precious little you’ll do,—­your bark is worse than your bite.”  But, without minding, John muttered the same gibberish over again, and then sat down at the table which the old folks had left.  He ate all there was on it, and then turned to the apples which his aged mother was paring, that she might give her guests some apple-sauce for breakfast; but she drew them away, and sent him off.