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meeting. We entered the church through an aperture in the door which had been caused by the demolition of a panel, and found ourselves standing opposite the pulpit, above which hung a sounding-board of considerable pretension, bearing the date of the erection of the building, and among some queer old pews with very high sides, causing them to look like little wells in which the piety of the olden time was sunk, the same little wells being fenced round with pegs screwed into the heavy top-rails that surrounded them. We saw the old chair where the old deacon had sat under the droppings of the sanctuary, and whence he rose to deacon' out the psalm, reciting two lines at a time, which were then sung, and followed by two more from the deacon until the whole stent had been accomplished. . . . We heard a pleasant chirping voice in the middle aisle, and there we beheld one of the humblest of God's creatures, a little squirrel sitting in the centre of the building and looking round him with his bright and fearless eyes. He was not long stationary, but scurried away through the church as if he had a perfect right there, and perhaps a better one than ours. A merry little sexton he is for the old deserted church which he held and holds as his citadel, even though the jays and pigeon-woodpeckers have beleaguered him, and driven their sharp bills quite through the plastering, and though sometimes the north-east blast must roar

...

outside the building, and whistle through its crevices, and tear the gray, moss-grown shingles from the roof, and shake the old crazy walls in the winter season with a fury that must make his little heart beat dreadfully. But no such guiltless creatures have no fear of Nature in her darkest moods; and the deadly tube of the roving gunner has more terrors for them than the wildest storm that ever swept the shore and sea. ... As we leisurely turned our steps homeward through the forest, we thought, as we looked upon the scene around us, of Bryant's beautiful lines:

'Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the wingèd plunderer

That sucks its sweets: the mossy rocks themselves,
And the old ponderous trunks of prostrate trees,
That lead from knoll to knoll, a causeway rude,
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scar'st the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee
Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.'"

Returning from Meeting-house Hill toward Squam River, overlooking Ipswich Bay and the estuary where river and bay unite, the lighthouse

and the cove and beach close by, and the river's channel leading by cove, beach, and point into the sheltered harbor, the whole scene is so fair and peaceful to our company of explorers that it hardly seems to them credible that there were days in the past when the villagers across the tide were thrown into deepest distress and sorrow by tales of the capture or murder of their absent friends on the sea by pirates, and sometimes were uplifted to the highest rejoicing by the arrival of their fathers, brothers, and sons alive and well, who had been supposed among the dead lying upon the bottom of the deep. The story of Captain Andrew Haraden and his crew illustrates both the hardness and the courage of those days.

They sailed from Annisquam, in the sloop "Squirrel," in the spring of 1724. Near the middle of April they were captured by John Phillips, who, as a pirate, had become a terror in our waters. Captain Haraden's vessel being new, Phillips decided to remain on board of her with his prisoners, and ordered his men to remove every thing from his own craft, and leave her to the winds and waves. The sloop not having been wholly finished, and there being carpenters' tools on board, the pirate set Captain Haraden to the task of completing the work left undone. Thus there were instruments in the captives' hands with which to regain possession of the sloop and their own liberty. A plan was devised to accomplish this end, and

immediately executed. One of the pirates was thrown overboard by an athletic sailor as the signal for action. Then Captain Haraden with an adze struck down Phillips, another with a broadaxe killed Phillips's boatswain, and others threw overboard the pirate's gunner. At this point of the struggle, the rest of the pirates gave themselves up as prisoners. Soon after, the "Squirrel" sailed into Squam River, steered by the steady hand of Captain Haraden, having the prisoners and the heads of Phillips and his boatswain on board. Subsequently two of the pirates were hung at Charlestown Ferry. Two others were sentenced to death, but were withheld from the gallows for a time, to be recommended to the king's mercy. The rest were set at liberty as men who had been forced to assist in evil work.

Recrossing the river to take seats again in the waiting carriage, no stain of blood is seen on wave or rock; and among the honest, kind-hearted, cheerful folk of the village, more is heard of the words and acts of the good pastor- who many years, till he died, led his flock by the still waters and in the green pastures of love and peace — than of the sanguinary conflicts which the sturdy forefathers of the long-ago, ruder days could not avoid.

At home again, and the day being nearly done, W. H. Hurlbut shall sing an evening song:

"On the tall cliffs the dying sunlight glows,

And stains with dolphin hues the waveless bay;
And stars peep forth that lead the night's array,
Where in mid-heaven the deep'ning purple grows.

How cool an eve attends this burning day!

How sweet a peace the troubled wave subdues!
O troubled, burning heart! canst thou refuse
To be as calmly hushed to rest as they?"

The ride to Pebble Stone Beach and Long Beach is also five miles. A great part of the way is overlooked from Pigeon Cove, since it is the road to Rockport around the seaside base of Pigeon Hill, and along the shore; passing, with other dwellings, the old Rowe House, the quarries of the Rockport Granite Company, the high, wood-covered ledges extending from the base of Poole's Hill to the ocean, and the beaches beyond, lying between storm-defying crags; and then onward from Rock