nd it is winter again,--the winter of 1919-20.
Trigger Island is bright and clean with the furbishings of summer. It
is January,--January without its coat of white,--January as green as the
tender gourd.

There are a dozen graves or more on Cape Sunrise; Betty Cruise no longer
lies alone out on the windswept point. Crudely chiseled on the rough
headstones are names that have not been mentioned in this chronicle,
still not the less enduring. One name is there, however, chipped in a
great black slab from the face of Split Mountain, that will never
be forgotten as long as Trigger Island exists: it is that of Captain
Weatherby Trigger.

The master of the Doraine died aboard-ship in the second winter. After
his death the ship was abandoned. Mr. Codge and the half-dozen old
mariners who had made their home in the dismal hulk came ashore.

Grim and ugly and as silent as the grave, save for the winds that moan
through her portholes and corridors, she lies rusting in sun and storm,
a gloomy presence that fills the soul with awe. Even the birds of the
air shun her barren decks; less fastidious bats have taken up their
abode in the heart of her, and spiders great and small are at work on a
sickly shroud.

Twenty months have passed. Christmas and New Year's day have twice been
celebrated and another Easter Sunday has found its way into the faithful
journal of Peter Snipe, and with them two amazing Fourths of July when
there was coasting on the long slopes and winter sports on the plains.
There has been one bountiful harvest and seed has been sown for yet
another. The full length of the sunny plain is under cultivation. The
bins in the granaries are well-filled with the treasures of the soil;
the gardens have increased and flourished; the warehouse is stacked
with fresh and dried fruits, vegetables, honey, and row upon row of
preserves! Great earthen jars, modeled with all the severity of the
primitive cave-dweller, serve as receptacles. The grist-mill on Leap
Frog River is busy from dawn till dusk; the forge rings with the music
of hammer and anvil; a saw-mill in the heart of Dismal Forest hums its
whining tune all day long. A noisy, determined engine, fashioned by
mechanics out of material taken from the engine and boiler room of the
Doraine provides the motive power for the saws and the means to produce
ponderous, far-reaching blasts on the transferred "fog-horn."

New and more commodious huts have gone up, roads have been b