Chapter I: Part 1

TALL TALES

OF

CAPE COD

TALL TALES
OF CAPE COD

_by_
MARILLIS BITTINGER

_With Illustrations by_
BRUCE ADAMS

THE MEMORIAL PRESS
PLYMOUTH · MASSACHUSETTS
1948

TALL TALES OF CAPE COD
COPYRIGHT, 1948, BY
THE MEMORIAL PRESS

_All rights in this book are reserved._

_Designed and Printed by_

THE MEMORIAL PRESS
PLYMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS

TO MY FATHER, _who Mother says tells the tallest tales of them all, and who helped me in the preparation of this book_.

... Introduction

There is not a part of the United States that does not have its share of fascinating folklore. From the coast of California and its legends of gold, to the hardy New England shores, rich with its stories of shrewd Yankee peddlers, personalities and fables march back from the past and implant themselves into the region as firmly and lastingly as the giant redwoods of California or the huge elm-arches of Yarmouth on Cape Cod. An integral part of sectionalized history, American folklore holds its own as a meter by which we may judge and understand those hardy men and women who took the new world in their hands and molded its character for the generations to come.

The title of this volume is perhaps misleading. Tall Tales of Cape Cod they are, yes, but in a broader sense that are the feel and the basis of a way of life. These fables and superstitions, personalities and adventures cannot be labeled merely Tall Tales, for they were such an important part of life on Cape Cod that to think of the narrow land without them would be impossible.

The stories I have presented here are, in a sense, true. Some of them are original, that is, products of my own imagination, fired by the Cape and its history. Others are as old as the Cape itself, and have been repeated time and again. Still others have been gleaned from conversation with Cape Cod folk and from the invaluable old books which I have been fortunate enough to have made available to me.

It would be impossible for me to state the credulity of the tales found in this volume, that is a matter entirely for the reader to decide. But this is Cape Cod, with its adventure and romance, mystery and humour, and I hope that the reader will find in them the true feel of a land that is incomparable in history, salty humour, and rock bound tradition.

MARILLIS BITTINGER

Plymouth, Massachusetts
April 1, 1948

... Contents

No Kissing On Sunday 1

The Cape Cod Gold Rush 3

How Scargo Lake Got Its Name 7

The Curse of Old Mother Melt 9

Barney Gould 12

It Pays to Keep the Sabbath 15

Timmy Drew and The Bull Frogs 17

The Wrong Gulls 28

She Had the Last Word 30

The Singular Case of the Young Anatomist 31

The Mooncussers of Cape Cod 38

How the Fogs Came to the Cape 40

The Peddler’s Coffin 45

The Whale that Went to New York 48

The Snake Biting Indian 50

Johnny Blunt’s Courtship 53

The Trusting Maiden 58

Shipwrecked 60

The Enchanted Mouse 65

Ole Bill Hardy 68

How Sophie Got A Husband 71

The Orleans Lamplighter 76

The Giant of Longnook Valley 77

Cupid and the Tree Warden 82

The Singing Fish of Monomoy Point 85

... No Kissing On Sunday

It isn’t unusual during the light-hearted days of Spring, or during any season for that matter, to see a boy and girl exchange a kiss. But back in the days when a kiss between any but married couples was a gross impropriety, any demonstration of affection on the Sabbath was against the law, even between married couples. There is no attempt to claim here that this law was never broken, but woe unto those hapless couples who were found out!

A Harwich great-great-great-ancestor, a red blooded sailing man, had been away on a long sea journey, and returned unexpectedly on one Sabbath afternoon. He strode down the street to his home, and at the gate, bellowed joyously for his wife. She rushed out the door and into his arms, and the captain’s natural inclination was of course to greet his wife with a hug and a kiss. They both, in the moment of meeting, quite forgot the law which forbade any such goings on. A prying neighbor--a frustrated old maid, no doubt--reported the incident to the authorities, with the result that the affectionate captain was clapped into the stocks for two days to repent.

Not less than a month after this romance thwarting incident, another couple was hauled into court. It would seem from this story that it was not god-fearing folks who gathered garden fresh peas on the Sabbath. The husband had returned from the sea Sunday morning, and his loving wife, knowing that fresh peas were his favorite vegetable, had gone into her garden and gathered an apron-full for dinner. It is not known what punishment was levied on the couple, but it is recorded in the family records that “they received their just punishment with god-like mien.”

... The Cape Cod Gold Rush

The lights in the cell block of the Charlestown State Prison shone forth in musty yellow streaks one mid-summer night in 1849. It was the hour when the prisoners were left to their own devices within their tiny cells before the final night lock-up.

The final lock-up bell clanged through the stone prison, the main lever was thrown, and the block was dark save for two lanterns at the end of the long corridor. The men settled down to sleep. But in the corner cell of Section 3, 2nd floor, there was no thought of sleep. The occupant of this cell was William Phelpes, sentenced to a long term after confessing to a startling $50,000 bank robbery at Wheeling. The loot had never been found, and it had taken authorities a long time to catch up with Phelpes. But it was not thoughts of reclaiming the fortune upon being released from prison that kept Phelpes awake this night. He had no intention of waiting ten long years to return to the outside world, and tonight he was planning a way to beat this waiting. His was not a plan of violence or a foolhardy attempt at escape. Phelpes was not unintelligent, and although he had little formal education, he was nevertheless known to be shrewd, cagey, and quick-witted.

Phelpes waited until the prison was completely quiet and he could hear only the steady breathing from the cell next to his, and an occasional murmur from the lips of some uneasy sleeper. Then he sprang into action. He took his tin drinking cup in his hand, and rattled it across the bars of his cell, hollering loudly for the guard. The lights in the corridor lit up, and the guards came running down to his cell, where Phelpes demanded to see the warden, saying that he wished to tell of the whereabouts of the $50,000.

When the warden stumbled sleepy and red eyed from his room, his annoyance about being awakened was amazingly short-lived when he learned the reason. It was decided that the search for the loot was to start early the next morning. Phelpes had promised, under guarantee of a lightened sentence, to lead the warden and his assistants to the very spot in which he had hidden the $50,000. The buried treasure, said Phelpes, was at Cotuit on Cape Cod.

There were two men that did not sleep in the prison that night, for their heads were whirling with plans. These men were Warden Robinson and Prisoner Phelpes. A golden cloud of money and freedom from the job of warden filled the mind of Warden Robinson, for his share of the reward promised for the return of the money would make it possible for him to retire and live pretty much as he chose. For Phelpes, the golden cloud meant only one thing--freedom, and already his mercurial thoughts were sliding from one fabulous plan to another--plans that could only be fulfilled by this freedom.

At 5 o’clock the next morning, Phelpes, Warden Robinson and the sheriff started out for Cape Cod and the $50,000. Phelpes, after the trio had arrived at Cotuit, and the general vicinity of the buried loot, pulled out a map, which he had carefully prepared the night before, and studied it intently. Elaborate steps were taken to follow the map to the letter. Warden Robinson’s hands shook as he held the map in his hands, and even the calm Phelpes seemed ruffled and excited.

The exact spot was finally found, and the digging began--digging that went on and on for what seemed like endless hours. It grew darker as evening began to turn into night when Phelpes sprang to his feet and shouted “We’s almost there!” Shovels tossed dirt furiously, and the exhilarated sheriff leaped into the hole for a closer look. The warden’s face, illuminated by the lantern which he held, was a mask of suppressed desire, and his eyes were holes of excitement and longing. He had no thought of anything but the money which lay so close within his grasp. But it was at this moment that Phelpes, forgotten both by the warden and the sheriff in this instant of near-wealth, put his ingenious plan into culminating action. As the warden leaned still closer into the hole where the sheriff was still frantically digging Phelpes lifted his foot and booted the gullible warden into the hole on top of the sheriff. In the confusion that inevitably followed, Phelpes made a successful dash for freedom, and later made his way to the true spot where the $50,000 was hidden.

... How Scargo Lake
Got Its Name

The handsome, stalwart young brave runner from a distant tribe looked just once at the proud and fiery Princess Scargo, beautiful daughter of Sagem, chief of the Bobusset tribe that once dwelt on the shore of Dennis, and lost his heart to her. And the Princess, who had given her heart to no man before, fell madly in love.

As token of his love and devotion, the young brave presented his beloved with a beautifully carved, hollowed-out pumpkin, filled with water in which were swimming four small silvery fish. The Princess adored her gift, and placed the small fish in a tiny pond which she hollowed out with her own hands. The beautiful Indian maiden spent long hours by her pond, for her lover had promised to return to her before the fish had grown to maturity. And so every day she watched the growth of her fish, for each change in size brought her closer to the young brave to whom she had pledged her love.

But the summer was a long and dry one, and when Princess Scargo went to her pond one morning, she found it dry and three of her beloved fish dead. The Princess was mad with grief. She wept and wailed, and the tears of grief kept alive the one remaining fish, which she placed once more in the pumpkin.

Her indulgent father immediately called an important pow-wow. It was decided that a lake should be dug especially for Princess Scargo’s fish. The strongest and most skillful brave shot an arrow in four directions. Each time an arrow fell, it marked a boundary of the lake.

The work of digging the lake basin went on steadily. When Autumn’s bright hues painted the countryside, and the Fall rains came, the lake bed filled deep and clear.

Princess Scargo placed her fish in the man-made lake, and prepared to wait once more for her lover. He came as he had promised, and after their marriage, they lived in their lodges on the shores of Scargo Lake, where the descendants of the silvery fish, token of an Indian love, still swim.

... The Curse of
Old Mother Melt

No one knew her real name, or from where she came. She seemed as old as Time itself, and her cavernous eyes were fathomless pits of mystic wisdom. The villagers spoke of her in hushed tones, and they called her Old Mother Melt. They believed she was a witch.

Old Mother Melt lived in an ancient, ragged cottage on the outskirts of Provincetown, and the townspeople dared not venture near her cottage after dark. Many a youth, returning from an evening of courting in a neighboring town, and forced to pass by the cottage of Old Mother Melt on his way home, was scared out of his breeches by the strange noises and eerie lights that came from the windows. This fear came from years of inbred superstition and ignorance, for Mother Melt had never done any harm that could be proven. Nevertheless, she remained an avoided, fearsome character. Whenever disaster, illness or calamity befell someone in the village, there were many who murmured ominously about “one of Mother Melt’s curses,” and the threat that “Old Mother Melt will get you” disciplined many an obstreperous child.

Whenever Mother Melt made one of her infrequent trips to the village for a few meagre staples, those on the streets slid quickly into doorways and shops, children scampered to their calling mothers, and all peered suspiciously at the grotesque old figure of Mother Melt as she picked her way slowly through the narrow streets.

The days of Old Mother Melt were the great days of fishing in Provincetown, and there was not a seaman in the village who would go near her cottage the week before he was to sail. But there was one whaling man, Capt. Samuel Collins, who scoffed at any mention of such things as witchcraft and curses, and it was to this man that Mother Melt spoke one day. Her request was a simple one. She knew that Capt. Collins was to leave shortly for a long whaling trip, and she asked that he take her son, a strong, intelligent lad of about fifteen, with him on his trip as cabin boy and apprentice. Captain Collins had no qualms about accepting, for he knew and liked the boy, and had often been impressed by his quickness. So Mother Melt’s dream of her boy off to sea, perhaps someday becoming master of his own ship, was realized.

But through some mix-up, when sailing time arrived, Mother Melt’s son was not to be found, and the captain could wait no longer for the boy. As the Collins’ ship sailed away, Mother Melt was at the wharf shrieking a curse upon the ship and all its hands.

Several weeks of steady winds and fair weather favored Captain Collins, but this run of good weather was shattered by a freak storm of sudden, fierce intensity. Monstrous waves and savage winds battered the fishing ship. Several of the crew were washed overboard to their deaths, and valuable time was lost in repairing the damage. Captain Collins recalled then the curse of Mother Melt, and declared that she was responsible for the disaster, for he could see no other explanation for the weird freak storm which had arisen so unexpectedly and caused so much damage. He swore to kill Mother Melt when he returned to home port.

When the great fishing ship limped into Truro, Captain Collins wasted no time. He was the first to stride down the gangplank and made his way straight to the old cottage at the edge of Provincetown village. There he found Mother Melt, weak and spent from a long illness. But nothing halted him or his anger. Mother Melt pleaded so passionately for her life, however, that he gave up his determination for revenge and promised to spare her if she in turn promised to never again utter a curse.

Upon the death of Old Mother Melt, Captain Collins took her son under his wing, and the lad later became master of his own ship, which had a long and remarkable record of clear sailing, free from storms and disasters. It is said that Mother Melt watched over the ship as it sailed the seven seas.

... Barney Gould

I happened into the Orleans General Store one drizzly afternoon, and found some old timers gathered round the potbellied stove, reminiscing about days gone by, and some of the personalities that colored those days. Perhaps the old cracker barrel, the wonderful, mixed smell of molasses and spices, and the kerosene lanterns were missing, but, in the midst of modern conveniences of a modern store, I travelled back into the past as I listened to the talk that flowed around the circle by the stove. Rain streaked down the window panes; a little puddle of rain water at the doorway widened as a few stragglers came in out of the storm, stamping their boots, and shaking off their slickers like ducks just out of water. The moods of the weather have a wonderful effect on conversation in such a setting, and bring forth stories almost forgotten, stories oft-repeated, and tall tales that grew and grew with the years.

Seth Finlay had a ghost of a smile on his wrinkled face, and a reminiscent twinkle in his deep-sea eyes. I heard him chuckle deep down inside, and felt somehow that a good yarn or two was forthcoming. Seth caught me looking at him, and chuckled again. “’Spose you’re wondering what I’m lookin’ so pleased about, don’t you? Wal, I’ll tell ye. All these stories ’bout what you off-Capers would call ‘characters’ brings to mind old Barney Gould. I ain’t sayin’ all the stories you hear ’bout him air true, but he was quite a feller. A mite bit tetched, mebbee, but harmless.

“One thing he was most set about. That was usin’ trains or enythin’ else besides the two legs that God gave him. He uster make regular trips up Boston and back, carryin’ packages and letters for folks. ’Twasn’t long before we wuz callin’ him ‘Barney Gould’s Express!’ And I swan efen one day, when Ben Howes wanted a dozen wood-end tooth rakes, he gave Barney a quarter and the durn fool walked all the way to Boston, got the rakes, and hiked all the way back with the rakes over his shoulder.

“Nuther funny thing ’bout Barney. He’d got the idee somewheres that he owned the roads. He’d stop everybody he met and ask ’em for two cents for his ‘road tax.’ I ’member one day he came up to me for the tax. All’s I had was a dime. He said that would pay my road tax for five years. If he’d lived fer that five years, he would’ve waited ’til then to ask me again; he never forgot who had paid and who hadn’t, and never hit up the same feller twice in the same year.

“Yu’ve heard tell about them long-distance walkers, I calculate. Wal, Barney was one of ’em. Least aways that’s how the stories go. They tell one story ’bout that’s kinda hard t’ believe. Seems that Cap’n Joel Nickerson was startin’ off in his schooner for New Orleans. Barney was foolin’ ’round down the dock, helpin’ the crew cast off. Cap’n Nickerson hollered over to him--‘Say, Barney--meet us down New Orleans to help us tie up, will ye?’ You won’t believe me, but sure enough, when the old schooner hove ’long side at the New Orleans dock, there was Barney, waitin’ to help tie up. He’d walked all the way from P’town to New Orleans.

“An’ one time--bet you won’t believe this either--he thought he’d like t’ see the Wild West. Yep--walked all the way to ’Frisco and back. Took him near two years, but he said it was wuth it. ’Course, that was when he was young and strong. Yep--he sure had a pair of legs, did Barney Gould.”

... It Pays to Keep
the Sabbath

Joe Crocker, down Wellfleet way, learned through bitter experience that it pays to keep the Sabbath.

Joe was always one to find a dollar, and when he did, he made the most of it. But he didn’t hanker after what most folks call real work. His financial status depended mostly on old Lady Luck. And she chose one Sunday to shine down on him.

Joe was strolling down the beach one Sunday morning when God-fearing folks were in church, and he came across a school of blackfish flung up on the beach. Now a man who finds such a school of beached blackfish is a fortunate one indeed, for he is well paid for the “melons” that are found in the skulls of the fish.

Old Joe promptly set to work cutting his initials in the blackfish skulls as a claim to his ownership. He was busily engaged in this task when the Methodist minister came by and caught him in the act, so to speak. He reprimanded him severely, and Joe just laughed. The minister said he could laugh then, but that he would get the devil’s own pay tomorrow, and strode on. I guess he knew it was useless to try and convert a melon-cutting heathen on the Sabbath.

Well, early next morning, Joe went down to sell his fish, but the market prices had taken a sudden weekend drop, and the sperm oil man wouldn’t buy. So there was Joe, left with a beach full of smelly blackfish. And you’ve never smelled such a stench as comes up from a beached school of blackfish when the wind is coming from the sea. The townspeople finally couldn’t stand it another minute, and a group of them came down to the beach to get rid of the school. And sure enough, there were Joe’s initials, carved in the skulls where he had put them on Sunday forenoon. Those initials J.C. were enough to convince every man jack of them that the whole smelly job was up to one man--the owner, and the owner was obviously Joe Crocker. He put up quite an argument, but he finally had to hire a half dozen fishermen to tow the blackfish back out to sea. The Methodist minister was heard to remark that some people had to learn the hard way that it pays “to keep the Sabbath day.” Joe didn’t have a thing to say, and he still didn’t come to Sunday meetin’, but no one ever saw him looking for easy work on the Sabbath again.

... Timmy Drew and
The Bull Frogs

Once upon a time, it is said, there lived in Chatham on Cape Cod a little whipper-snapper of a fellow, named Timothy Drew. Timmy was not more than four-feet-eight, and that standing in his thick-soled boots. And so, as befalls so many unfortunates of Timmy’s stature, he was forced to accept heckling from his taller associates, among whom Timmy appeared a dwarf. But long-legged men held no fears for Timmy, for although small, he made up in spirit what he lacked in bulk, as is so often the case with small men. Timmy was all pluck and gristle, and no steel trap was smarter.

When Timmy refused to stand for the gibes that were thrown at him, he was chock full of fight. To be sure, he could hit his tormentors no higher than the belt-buckle, but his blows were so rapid and full of force that he beat the daylights out of many a ten-footer. When Timmy was in his fiery youth, the words “If you say that ’ere again, I’ll knock you into the middle of next week!” were enough to quell any belligerent.

Timmy Drew was a natural born shoemaker. No man around could hammer out a piece of leather with such speed and accuracy. Timmy used his knee for a lap stone, and years of thumping made it hard and stiff as an iron hinge. Timmy’s shoe shop was near a pleasant valley on the edge of a pond. In the Spring, this pond was a fashionable gathering place for hundreds of bull frogs, that came there from all parts to spend the warm season. Several of these bull frogs were of extraordinary size, and as they became used to Timmy, who spent some time down near the pond’s edge feeding them, they would draw near to his shop, raise their heads, and swell out their throats like balloons until the area vibrated with their basso music. Timmy, keeping busily at his work to the accompaniment of this bull frog male chorus, beat time for them with his tooling hammer, and in this manner the hours passed away as pleasantly as the day is long.

Now Timmy was not one of those shoemakers who stick eternally to their bench like a ball of wax. In fact, Timmy made a habit of carrying his work to his customer’s house, partly for assurance of perfect fit and partly for company. Then, too, he always stopped at the tavern on his way home from work for sociability and to inquire about the day’s news. It was here especially that Timmy found his size unfortunate, for here gathered all the jokers and wags of the neighborhood, as well as the notoriously teasing and practical joking peddlers. Although Timmy felt as uncomfortable as a short-tailed horse in fly time in this company, he loved to be there and reveled in the conversation and the stories that were told.

Unfortunately for Timmy, however, the peddlers took the keenest delight in imposing on his credulity as well as on his stature. They always seemed to have the most amazing conglomeration of tall stories at hand, but also seemed to have even more amazing ones when the gullible Timmy was present. They had learned long before that Timmy was not to be toyed with about his height, but still retained their practice of goading him on to believe their incredibly tall tales. And there was no one who can describe an incredible fact with more plausibility than a peddler. His profession alone had taught him to maintain an iron gravity when selling his wares, which, with very few exceptions, could certainly not sell themselves. Thus their tales, sufficient in themselves to embarrass any other narrator, carried great conviction.

But there was a joke which the peddlers played on Timmy that carried itself out far beyond any and all expectations. Many and diverse were the pranks played on Timmy the gullible, but never before one with such repercussions as this one, which, from the start, seemed made to order for him.

A fashionable tailor in the neighboring and larger village decided to advertise in Chatham, thereby bringing to himself trade from the small community and others like it. This tailor took it on himself to have a large and flaming advertisement made which was posted in the tavern which Timmy frequented on his way home from the shoe shop. The advertisement excited general interest, for the tailor asserted to have, at greatly reduced prices, a splendid assortment of coats, pantaloons and waistcoats of all colors and fashions, as well as a great variety of trimmings such as tape, thread, buckram, ribbons, and--this last item was especially stressed--“frogs,” those cord material hooks in the shape of that deep-throated and squat reptile.

The next time Timmy appeared at the tavern, his associates and peddler hecklers pointed out to him the advertisement, with special stress on the “frogs.” They reminded him of the plenteous supply of these frogs to be found in his own neighboring Lily Pond.

“Why, Timmy,” they said, “this is the chance of a life time. If you were to give up shoemaking and take to frog catching, you would make your tarnal fortune!”

“How so?” asked Timmy.

“Why, lad,” spoke up one of the peddlers, “can’t you see by that poster that frogs are in great demand in fashionable tailoring?”

“Yes, Timmy,” spoke up still another conspirator in the joke, “you might bag a thousand in half a day, and folks say they will bring a dollar a thousand!”

It was obvious that these words had a great effect on Timmy, for he was carefully considering the suggestion, and could see the money pouring already into his outstretched hands.

“There’s frogs enough in Lily Pond,” he mused, “but it’s tarnation hard work to catch ’em. I swaggers! They’re plaguey slippery fellows!”

Then up spoke Joe Gawky, by far the most infamous practical jokester in the company. “Never mind, Timmy. Take a fish net and scoop ’em up. You must have ’em alive, and fresh.” And then, drawing Timmy aside, Joe whispered, “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go you shares. Say nothing of it to anyone. Tomorrow night I’ll come up and help you catch a goodly batch, and we’ll divide the gain.”

Timmy was in raptures. But he was, as you will soon see, counting his frogs before they were caught.

As Timmy walked home that night, a cagy thought, upon which he inwardly prided himself, came into his head. Thought Timmy, “These ’ere frogs in a manner belong to me, since my shop stands near Lily Pond. Why should I make two bites at a cherry and divide profits with Joe Gawky? By gravy! I’ll get up early in the morning, and be off with a batch of them to the tailor’s before sunrise, and so keep the money all to myself!”

And so he did. Never before had there been such a stir among the placid frogs of Lily Pond. In fact, they were taken quite by surprise, and with no little difficulty. Timmy captured a huge bag of them and set off on his journey to the tailor’s.

Mr. Buckram, the fashionable tailor, was an elderly gentleman, and a nervous one, and, when disturbed, inclined to be peevish. Mr. Buckram was also very particular both about his own attire and that of his customers, and prided himself on the neat-as-a-pin appearance of his shop.

The unsuspecting Mr. Buckram was busily engaged in making a waistcoat for a Harwich gentleman when Timmy entered the shop. The sight of Timmy alone was enough to make anyone take notice, but Timmy, together with a large and curiously jumping bag slung over his shoulder was indeed a sight to see. Timmy wasted no time in preliminaries, perhaps under the impression that big business needed no introduction. Since the tailor had not noticed or seemingly did not hear his entrance into the quiet shop, Timmy assumed that the elderly man was deaf. So, without further ado, Timmy leaned down, and, pressing his mouth near the old man’s head, bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Do you want any frogs today?”

The old gentleman dropped his shears and jumped clear off his stool in astonishment, viewing Timmy with a mixture of amazement and alarm. “Eh? Any frogs? What in tarnation for?”

“I’ve got a fine lot here,” persisted Timmy, thinking the tailor was being shrewd. “They are jest from the pond, and lively as grasshoppers!”

Mr. Buckram was plainly confused. “Don’t bellow in my ears,” he exclaimed. “I’m not deaf! Tell me what you want and then be off.”

“I want to sell you these frogs. You shall have them at a bargain. Only one dollar a hundred. I won’t take a cent less. Do you want them or not? If I can’t get satisfaction here, I shall go elsewhere, and you shall miss out on a great bargain!”

Mr. Buckram thought he was face to face with a miniature mad man, and attempted to rid himself of the small nuisance with bravado. “No, I don’t want any frogs. Now get out of my shop, you young fool!”

“I say you do want ’em!” shouted Timmy, “but you’re playing offish-like to beat down my price. I won’t take a cent less, I tell you!”

The conversation went on like this for fully ten minutes, and finally Timmy, puzzled, mortified, and angry, slowly withdrew. “He won’t buy ’em,” thought Timmy “for what they are worth. And as for taking nothing for them, I won’t. And yet, I don’t want to lug them back to Lily Pond again. Curse the old man anyway. I’ll try him once more, and be durned if I’ll ever plague myself this way again!”

And once more he entered the tailor shop.

“Mr. Buckram, this is absolutely your last chance. Are you willing to give me anything for these frogs?”

The old man was goaded beyond endurance. He sprang from his work and took after Timmy with his long shears.

“Well, then” said Timmy bitterly, as he backed away, “Take ’em among ye for nothing,” and so saying, emptied the contents of the bag on the floor of the shop and marched indignantly away.

Well, you can imagine the confusion that followed. One hundred live bull frogs had a marvelous time jumping about the shop. Every nook and corner had a bull frog in it, and to make matters worse and add to the confusion, they set up a loud and indignant cacophony of chug-a-lums.

And thus dissolved the golden visions of Timmy the Frog Catcher.

After this affair, Timmy could not bear the thought, sight, sound, or mention of a frog. He never admitted that a joke had been played on him, but his associates would not let him forget the incident. They referred constantly to the matter. He was rarely seen now at the tavern, and even the town children called after him on the street--“There goes the frog catcher.” You see the story had spread up and down the Cape, and Timmy had no peace.

The sound of frogs singing in the Lily Pond incensed Timmy to such a degree that he would run out of the shop and pelt the poor things with stones to stop their noise. It seemed after a while that their song, which he heard both day and night, had definite words in it, and contained his own name.

On one night in particular, Timmy was awakened from sound sleep by a tremendous bellowing directly under his window. It seemed as if all the frogs in the world were clearing their throats for a mass chug-a-lum. He listened with amazement, and could soon distinguish--

Boooooooo
Timmy Drew-o-o-o
I can make a shoe-o-o-o
As well as you-o-o-o
And better too-o-o-o
Timmy Drew-o-o-o
Boooooooo

Timmy was certain no ordinary frogs could pipe out such a song at that rate. He leaped out of bed and rushed from the house. “I’ll teach those rascals to come around plaguing me,” he said. But no one could be seen. It was a clear bright night, all was solitary and still, save for an occasional rumble from the sleeping frogs. After throwing a few stones into the bushes, Timmy retired once more and fell into uneasy sleep.

The amazing concert continued night after night, swelling on the evening breeze, and then sinking away into the distance. Again and again Timmy attempted to discover who were the perpetrators of the nightly serenading. They could not be found. He began to feel certain that he was to be forever haunted by the music. His friends sympathized with him, but Timmy was too upset to sense the mischief in the air.

The next time Timmy stopped at the tavern, he found all in earnest consultation.

“Here he comes,” said one, as soon as Timmy entered.

“Have you heard the news?” inquired the tavern keeper.

“No,” said Timmy with a groan.

“Joe Gawky ’as seen sech a critter in the pond! A monstrous large frog, as big as an ox, with eyes as large as a horse. I never heard of no such thing in all my born days!”

“Nor I,” said Sam Greening.

“Nor I,” said Josh Whiting.

“Nor I,” said Tom Bizbee.

“I have heard tell of sech a critter in Ohio,” said Eb Crawley. “Frogs have been seed there, as big as a suckling pig, but not in these ’ere parts.”

“Mrs. Timmings,” said Sam Greening, “feels quite melancholy about it. She guesses as how it’s a sign of some terrible thing that’s going to happen.”

“I was fishing for pickerel,” said Joe Gawky, who, by the way, was a tall, spindle-shanked fellow, with a white head, and who stooped in the chest like a crook-necked squash. “I was after pickerel, and had a frog’s leg for bait. There was a tarnation big pickerel just springing at the line, when out sailed this great he-devil from under the bank. By the living hokey! He was as large as a small-sized man! Such a straddle-bug I never seed! I up line, and cleared out like a blue fish, I can tell you!”

Timmy searched anxiously the faces of all present for some sign of spoofing, but he could see only sober concern that credited the story. He began to feel very uneasy.

“That must be the critter I heard t’other night in the pond!” exclaimed Josh Whiting. “I swanny, he roared louder than a bull.”

This last statement aroused in Timmy divers emotions, all connected with the serenading that had been his for the past many nights. In vain, the company questioned him concerning his knowledge of the matter. He would not say a word.

After this introduction, the conversation took naturally to discussion of the supernatural. Each one had some story to tell of witches, ghosts and goblins. By degrees, the company dispersed, until Timmy Drew found himself quite alone. He found it difficult to get up and start home, for the conversation had impressed him more than he would admit at the time, and the walk home by the Lily Pond was nothing he cared to consider.

At length, he got up courage and started home. His course lay over a solitary road, darkened by over-shadowing trees. A tomb-like silence, heightened by his thoughts, prevailed, disturbed only by his echoing foot-steps. Timmy Drew marched straight ahead with a stealthy pace, not daring to look behind, yet dreading to proceed by Lily Pond. At last he reached the top of the hill at the foot of which were his house and Lily Pond. He had just about reached his door, when a sudden rustle of leaves by the pond brought his heart dry and bitter to his mouth. At this moment, the moon slipped aside a cloud and seemed to focus on an object that turned Timmy to stone on the spot. An unearthly monster, in the shape of a mammoth bull frog, sat on its ugly haunches, glaring at him with eyes like burning coals. With a single leap, it was by Timmy’s side, and he felt one of his ankles caught in a cold wet grasp. Terror gave him strength. With a howl and a Herculean effort, he pulled himself away from the monster’s clutches and tore up the hill.

“By the living hokey!” said Joe Gawky, slowly rising from the ground and arranging his clothing. “Who’d uv guessed thet this ’ere old pumpkin head atop my shoulder with a candle a-burning in it would have set old Timmy’s stiff knees a-goin’ at that rate! I couldn’t see him travel for the dust his boots rose!”

It is hardly necessary to add that Cape Cod saw no more of the Frog Catcher from Chatham, Timothy Drew.

... The Wrong Gulls

Cap’n Caleb Nickerson of Truro, master of a large ship which oftentimes took on young boys as apprentices and cabin boys, was sailing home to the Cape after a long journey. When the ship was almost to P’town, Cap’n Nick, bone-weary and worn from the long run, decided to turn the wheel over to young David, a youth who had shipped out with him to learn the fine art of seamanship.

“But, Cap’n Nickerson,” the boy demurred, “I don’t know much about navigation yet, and the compass is still strange to me.”

“Don’t worry, Lad,” said Caleb reassuringly. “See them gulls over there? Wal, just folly them right along, and they’ll take ye right home to port.”

With these words, Cap’n Nickerson went below to his quarters for a snooze. When he awoke a few hours later, he peered out of the porthole and was dumfounded to find himself still out in the open ocean, when the ship should have arrived in Provincetown long before. Rushing madly topside, the cap’n grabbed poor Dave by the nape of the neck, and in a few choice mariner’s words, demanded what in tarnation he thought he was doing.

“But, Cap’n,” exclaimed the perplexed boy, “you told me to folly them gulls over there, and I’ve been right on their trail!”

Cap’n Nick grabbed the telescope, took one squint-eyed look at the gulls, and then bellowed, “Why you durn fool! Them’s Chatham gulls, not Truro gulls!”

... She Had the Last Word

A Cape Cod widow, whose married life had been far from peaceful and happy, refused to let the minister write a flowery tribute for her husband’s gravestone, as was the custom.

But propriety and convention of the times insisted that something appear carved on the headstone, and so the indomitable woman left the choice of verse entirely up to the local stone-cutter. He resorted to the stock phrase:

“As I am now, so you will be--
Prepare for death and follow me.”

Convention thus being satisfied, no more was thought of the matter, but when friends and relatives paid their next visit to the grave, they were shocked and stunned to see, carved beneath the stone-cutter’s verse, these lines:

“To follow you I’ll not consent,
Because--I know which way you went!”

... The Singular Case of the
Young Anatomist

Fate, that capricious ruler of the tides that governs our lives, arranged a meeting on the wild, windswept Hill of Storms in Truro on Cape Cod; a meeting so strange that, for the sake of credulity, I must withhold the name of the earthly being who took part in it. For it was on a dark Fall night, long ago, that a Cape Cod boy, with nothing in his pockets but his dreams and a burning ambition, met and talked with a live skeleton, and, caught up on the crest of Fate’s precarious wave, was swept high to Fame and Fortune.

We will call him Tom, and nothing else, this young and ardent hero of our story, for if, in the telling of this strange tale, which I swear to be true, the real name of the young man were disclosed, you, gentle reader, would scoff and read no further.

A look at young Tom as this amazing story unfolds would reveal a singularly insignificant youth, dreamy of eye and slight of form. Tom burned with that white flame of ambition thwarted by a financial standing about equal to that of a beachcomber, and a scanty country education. But youth has strange ways of overcoming such obstacles, and Tom’s energies, rather than diminishing, seemed to gather momentum and strength from the meagre stuff upon which they were fed. Why or how, cut off as he was from higher learning, Tom chose Anatomy as his field to conquer, no one knows, but chose it he did. He spent every waking hour and every dream yearning for the day when he would be able to buy for himself the text books that would pave his rocky road to Success. A penny here, and, a week later, a penny there--finally Tom was able to purchase a small text on Anatomy. In less than three weeks, he had memorized, with the correct Latin names thrown in for good measure, every word, every definition, every diagram in the text book. This subject was his life, and he wrapped himself so completely in his fierce desires that to shake hands with a man became not merely a gesture of friendship, but a good chance to feel the finger bones manipulate. But, happily, Tom was too intelligent not to know that this knowledge, although he could describe exactly the position, use, and articulation of every bone in the human body, did not make him an anatomist. For his descriptions were merely a repetition of the words in the small book which had become his bible. His burning desires now changed course to those of seeing and examining an actual skeleton, and these thoughts buzzed around in his mind like a swarm of angry bees.

A pensive, solitary figure, Tom sat one night by the huge fireplace in the local Inn, lost in thought and dream. The flames in the fire before him took the shape of grinning, cavorting skeletons. He was so absorbed in his dream-world that the noisy animation and conversation about him pricked his consciousness no harder than a fly on an elephant’s hide. The men were talking, as they had for weeks, about old Cyrus Goodestone, a man always thought of as rich, but who had died without a trace of money to be found anywhere, much to the distress of his creditors.

But when, during one of those violent and sudden early Spring rain storms, the door of the Inn flew open, and a hooded and cloaked stranger strode into the room, even Tom took notice. For the stranger stood before the fire, his back to the company, and neither spoke nor turned when greeted. The storm stopped as suddenly as it had started, and when the moonlight shone once more through the window, the stranger heeled about, gathered his voluminous cloak more closely about him, and left. An eeler, sitting near Tom, spoke up:

“That be a queer chap. I’m a-goin’ to see what he’s about,” and with these words, he too left the Inn.

Less than five minutes later, he returned, white as a flounder’s belly. He made a beeline for the table, and gulped down a glass of rum. Then, gasping, partly from fright and partly from the raw drink of rum, he spoke.

“Udds hiddikins! Old chap just gone out--got no proper face like--only a Death’s head--looked me square in the face in the moonlight, he did, and I c’n tell ye, I waited to see no more!”

At this startling tale, Tom sprang from his lethargy like a man possessed, and clutching the terrified eeler by the coat lapels, he yelled, “You mean--he was a skeleton?” When the answer was a startled “yes,” Tom shouted, “Which way did he go?”

“Why, down towards the graveyard, sure,” said the eeler. But Tom was out the door before the words had barely tickled the lips of the eeler.

No thought that the eeler might have been “seein’ things” entered Tom’s mind and he tore down the road toward the graveyard on Truro’s Hill of Storms. The wild wind, the scudding clouds that made the night a night of shadows, the bony-fingered branches that picked at his face as he ran through the shortcut in the woods--of these things Tom was unaware. For on the Hill of Storms, midst gravestones battered by sea winds and spray, was his heart’s desire!

Tom stood at the top of the hill, bracing himself against the sea wind. His heart thudded against his ribs like the heavy breakers that boomed against the rocks below. His wild eyes swept the graveyard, and then, in the split second when the clouds parted, and the moon shone through, Tom saw, still enveloped in the cloak, the figure from the Inn, gazing sorrowfully down at the new grave marker of Cyrus Goodestone. Then, in a sudden sweep of wind, the cloak billowed up, fell to the ground--and left, gleaming phosphorously in the misty moonlight, the unbelievable figure of a Skeleton!

“Thank my stars!” yelled Tom. “I have found my Skeleton at last!”

“Young man,” said the Skeleton in a hollow voice, clacking his hideous hinged jaws, “Attend!”

“How beautifully,” cried Tom, ignoring the command, “can I see the play of the lower maxilliary!”

“Attend, I say!” repeated the Skeleton, in a still more frightening voice. And then, turning, “Rash boy, what are you about?” exclaimed the bony apparition. The fact is, our enthralled hero was busily running his fingers up and down the vertebrae of the Skeleton, counting them to see if they corresponded with the number given in his book, and muttering gleefully, “Seven cervical, twelve dorsal--just right!”

The Skeleton, angered and shocked speechless, raised his arm and shook his fist at the absorbed Tom, who, with his eyes fixed on the bony elbow, merely shouted joyfully, “The gingyloid movement is perfect!”

The Skeleton was plainly confused. Never before had he, accustomed to scaring the wits out of people, encountered any such attitude as this, for Tom stood before him completely unafraid. He was amazed at the scientific stand taken by our young anatomist. As a matter of fact, the skeleton began to feel a little wary himself, and moved away from Tom, darting in and out from behind the gravestones in an effort to get away. But Tom was not to be put off at this late date, and overtaking the Skeleton, grabbed on and held for all he was worth.

The ensuing conversation, however, was friendly, and the Skeleton explained that he was old Cyrus Goodestone himself. He had, he said, buried his money underground, and could not rest in peace until he had dug it up and paid off his creditors. This he asked Tom to do. Tom consented, upon one condition, which he laid in a very businesslike manner before the Skeleton.

“It will be some trouble,” he said, “and the affair is none of mine, but look ye--I’m willing to comply with your request, if, as a reward, you will allow me to come here and study you every night for the next month. You may then retire to rest for as long a time as you please.”

“Agreed!” cried the Skeleton, and, recovering from his original alarm, shook hands with the exultant Tom to seal this strange bargain.

Tom found the money, just as the Skeleton had said, distributed it among the amazed creditors of Cyrus Goodestone, and passed every night for the next month in the graveyard on the Hill of Storms. There, amidst the gravestones, he studied his accommodating Skeleton, who, as it turned out, was a congenial and humorous fellow. The Skeleton tirelessly moved into any position or pose Tom requested, giving the young anatomist an opportunity no other had ever, or will ever have, that of watching the actual bone movement of a live Skeleton!

By the end of the month, Tom and his Skeleton were warm friends, for they had discussed many things, and had played cribbage by the grave of Cyrus Goodestone, upon many occasions when the night’s posing was done. They parted with regrets, and the Skeleton wished Tom success and happiness in his career.

Tom completely retained in his mind all he had observed in his amazing month’s study, and by that knowledge, laid the foundation of a profound anatomical science by which he was afterwards to become famous.

It is needless to state that the above is the early history of an obscure Cape Cod boy with a dream who became a famous anatomist, and that any and all other accounts are baseless fabrications.

... The Mooncussers of
Cape Cod

Remaining only in tradition as some of the most colorful characters in the unending novel of Cape Cod are the swashbuckling domestic pirates known politely as salvagers, romantically as mooncussers, and more authentically as bandits.

Fables and tradition say that a band of these men anciently infested the shores of Cape Cod. But they were not merely plunderers who swept down on unsuspecting victims; their business was a serious, planned and profitable one, flavored with a touch of the wildly romantic stuff of which pirate stories are made. Theirs was a dangerous game, and they played it well.

The whole band of them were mounted on horses when they began their nightly adventures. Up and down the beaches they rode, armed with large lanterns which they placed at strategically dangerous points along the shores. These decoy lanterns led ships astray on treacherous sandbars and shoals. This completed, they plundered them of everything, leaving the ships stripped and gutted.

A group of the mooncussers would divide, two of them tramping the beach in one direction, two in the other, a shingle held up to protect their eyes from the flying sand, and straining to pierce the darkness for a light from a ship in distress or for a glimpse of a hull on the bars off shore. Perhaps the first sign would be a spar flung up by the wild surf, the tattered remnants of a sail, or the still and battered form of a dead sailor. It is easy to see the origin of the word “mooncusser,” for moonlight nights held no profit for these men, and the beauty of moonlight on still ocean was cursed and not admired.

The nights of the mooncussers were the nights of howling winds, thundering surf, and a wild and turbulent sea, for those were the nights when the work of the mooncussers were the most profitable. It was a wild setting for a wild play.

But the advent of the huge lighthouses, put up after much opposition, especially from the men of Eastham, put an end to mooncussing, for the great white eye of the light beacon could pierce the darkness of a night even brighter than the hated full moon.

... How the Fogs Came
to the Cape