The old
freestone school building was still perfectly sound, but the carved,
ink-stained desks were almost whittled away.
The highest part of our playground back of the school commanded a view
of the sea, and we loved to watch the passing ships and, judging by
their rigging, make guesses as to the ports they had sailed from,
those to which they were bound, what they were loaded with, their
tonnage, etc. In stormy weather they were all smothered in clouds and
spray, and showers of salt scud torn from the tops of the waves came
flying over the playground wall. In those tremendous storms many a
brave ship foundered or was tossed and smashed on the rocky shore.
When a wreck occurred within a mile or two of the town, we often
managed by running fast to reach it and pick up some of the spoils. In
particular I remember visiting the battered fragments of an
unfortunate brig or schooner that had been loaded with apples, and
finding fine unpitiful sport in rushing into the spent waves and
picking up the red-cheeked fruit from the frothy, seething foam.
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