into
the mighty deep; but these picturesque boats are fast giving way to
more modern conveyances, and the fussy motorboat, that is not
dependent upon wind or tide, will soon relegate the lateen sail to
total obscurity.

Go again to the wharf in the late afternoon, and watch these same
boats come laboring in against the tide, sunk deep in the water with
their day's catch. See them unload, and spread the nets to dry, and if
you can find one of these grizzled old salts off duty, and he feels so
inclined, he will tell you (between puffs on his short, black pipe)
strange and interesting stories of adventure at sea or of shipwreck on
lonely island.

Then, as the sails are furled, and all made snug aloft and below, and
the boats bob up and down on the long swells, straining at their
moorings, the sun sinks down behind the ocean, leaving the wharf in
shadow. The lights begin to gleam in the city, the tower of the ferry
building gleams like a beacon, outlined with its thousands of
incandescent lights, and the ferryboat takes us across the bay and
home, to dream of queer-shaped sails, of ancient mariners, and the
"Golden City" on the bay.

[Illustration]

The Stake and Rider Fence

I love to let my fancy go wandering where it will,
To the happy days of boyhood, to the meadow and the hill;
To the brooks and quiet places, to the woods that seemed immense,
But they always linger fondly at the stake-and-rider fence.

Here, cicadas sing their loudest, and the crickets draw the bow,
And the 'hoppers and the locusts join the chorus, soft and low;
And you hear the bees a humming like a fiddle with one string,
While the air just seems to vibrate with a soothing kind of ring.

There the squirrel scolds and chatters as he runs along the rail,
And you hear the rain-crow calling, and the whistle of the quail;
And the catbird, and the blue jay, scold with vigor most intense,
As they build among the branches by the stake-and-rider fence.

There grew the tasseled milkweed with its bursting silken pods,
And the stately, waving branches of the yellow goldenrod;
The mullein stalk and asters, with teasels growing dense,
God's garden, in the angle of the stake-and-rider fence.

It was homely, but I loved it, and I wouldn't trade, would you?
For all the hothouse beauties that a florist ever knew.
Yes, I'd give up earthly honors, and count it recompense,
Just to wander through the meadow by