The population of the Maine seacoast village is no longer exclusively "American;" the fruit dealer may be a Greek, the shoemaker a Syrian, the bootblack an Italian, and some of the seafarers Portuguese or Spanish. The children of these dark-skinned and dark-eyed people, while no doubt they are good little Americans in the making, often show unmistakably their southern European origin

Summer visitors swarm along the Maine seacoast, and picnics and clam-bakes and "fish dinners" furnish interesting outdoor diversions for them. A motor boat takes the party up one of the innumerable inlets or bays, a landing is made, a fire built, and a "spread" is soon ready, consisting partly of provisions brought from town, and partly, perhaps, of fish or lobsters or clams caught by the party or bought from neighborly fishermen

The days when the village saw full-rigged ships in its spacious harbor are forever gone, but schooners a-plenty are at hand to rejoice the sea-lover with the "white and rustling sail." They go far up the inlets to take on cargoes of lumber. Some of them are a home product-built in the village, which boasts several shipyards

Her last voyage completed, the hulk lies stranded in the shallow waters known as "The Graveyard." For a score of years her stout timbers have defied the disintegrating forces of tide, wind, and frost. Across the bay we see what may be called "The Birthplace"-a shipyard humming with busy activities that accent the scene of decay before us