complete record of the wrecks at the perished-exhausted, bruised, and half Peaked Hill Bar Station for the past dead; but the life-savers were ready for thirty years. I noted that the volume, them, and, with restoratives and dry quite a thick one, was well-nigh used clothing, kindled anew the spark of life. up. Vessels run amuck on this desolate Three were picked up alive that night spot with astounding frequency. A and saved; at daybreak next morning winter never passes without adding to four bodies were found--for these help the already long list fresh stories of had, alas! come too late. tragedy and heroism. Only a little more than a week before my visit a particularly nasty " wreck had occurred. The schooner Elwood Burton, bound from St. John, New Brunswick, to New York, stranded on the inner bar during a northeast gale-the old story, couldn't make the harbor, but was driven by the fury of the elements on to a lee shore.

The patrol of the middle watch had seen her, had burned his Coston light, and had hastened back to the station to call out the crew. When they arrived at the scene, the waves already, in one short hour, had almost extorted their toll to the limit; the wreck was breaking up; to fire a line over her would have been useless, as nothing could be living on her decks, and great piles of laths from her cargo were already heaped up ten feet on the beach.

Many another story could be added of the horrible disasters so frequent on this coast. The terrible storm of '98, known as the Portland gale because of the total loss of that passenger steamer, is still fresh in the minds of many of the

Led by their Captain, the surfmen fought their way through this tangle of wreckage right into the breakers. A line was put round the leader's waist, fastened to the next behind, and so on. A human cry was heard. Their errand of mercy was not to be in vain. The mainsail of the schooner, having fallen across the heaps of floating lumber, had formed a sort of raft. On this some of the crew clung, and these were washed ashore. No doubt they had seen the gleam of the coast patrol's light, and, with newly inspired courage, battled for the shore. Even then they would have

life-savers. They will

tell you of the number of the dead that were picked up on the beach just afterward, and how one patrolman lost his reason because of finding so

many.

I heard of other things equally remarkable-how one entire crew of a wrecked Italian brigantine, when picked up, were found to have been suicides; how others had fled terrified when succor had been offered them. One strange feature brought into the life of a patrolman is the number of curious finds he makes from time to time-articles of wreckage washOne told me of a fine case

ed ashore. of oranges, in excellent condition, that had recently caught his eye on the beach; another mentioned that the quite elaborate chair in which he was seated was a relic of the sea, cast up. A weird incident of the lost Portland was that her cargo largely consisted of coffins and lard, and it was a strange sight to see the wreckers from the near-by towns carrying the lard home in coffins.

From Peaked Hill Bar Station I went to Monomoy, away down at the other end of the Cape-another station with annals well dotted by death, disaster,

and heroism. Here, again, miles and
miles of the most desolate sandy waste
had to be traversed to reach one's ob-
jective, and I cannot well conceive of a
more execrable day than the one on which
it was my lot to travel to this station.
A dense fog and a blinding rain were
its chief characteristics-a rain which
partially froze as it smote you. A kindly
patrolman, returning from duty, picked
me up in Chatham, and offered to let me
share his open cart. I was glad enough
to avail myself of the opportunity, for
the local livery stable
proprietor had defi-
nitely decided that he
would not go on such
a day. After I had
traversed the road I
did not blame him.
Of all the wretched
paths it has been my
lot to traverse, I think
that of Monomoy
Island was the worst.
It was swashy, soggy,
icy; quicksands had
to be avoided; wide
stretches of tidal water
had to be crossed, and
that, too, when the

tide was just right. It

so rained that, in spite of the suitability of my clothing, I was soon wet to the skin and cold to the bone. On arriving at Monomoy, we found the station deserted, save for the one man left in charge. As we entered

schooner Sea Fox had lost her rudder and had signaled for assistance. The men had rowed out to her, and, lashing their surf-boat alongside, used it for steering purposes, and before night had safely guided the craft into the next harbor. Half the night was then occupied in rowing back to the station. Such is the character of these men that I had difficulty in learning these details. No one particularly mentioned the occurrence, no one complained of the inconvenience and the hardship; as we ate

breakfast the conversation was of other things.

Sound,

Nantucket just off Monomoy, is especially dangerous to navigators. Shoals and bars abound. I counted five lightships and six lighthouses, all visible from the station "lookout," marking the zigzag courses necessary for vessels to take.

Perhaps the saddest story in the history of the service must be told in connection with this station. I have not the heart to relate the details of it; suffice to say that on the 11th of March, 1902, the schooner Wadena stranded on the Shovelful Shoal off the southern end of Monhe muttered to my companion, "Trouble omoy Island. She was in no immediate to the east'ard; the men have taken danger, and the crew elected to stay the surf-boat half an hour ago." I aboard. On the 17th, however, a signal knew that a wreck had just taken of distress was noted on her rigging, place; the fog was so dense, however, and Captain Eldredge and the lifethat nothing could be done or seen. It saving crew at once set out in their was late when I retired, yet no word had surf-boat, although a heavy sea was reached the station. Somewhere out on running at the time. They succeeded in the fog-laden water on that wintry night reaching the Wadena and in taking off eight men were striving nobly and well the crew-five Italians-who were told to give succor to their fellows. Next to be sure and sit quietly in the bottom morning at breakfast they were all pres- of the surf-boat. Terrible to relate, The story they had to tell was, however, when some water came over fortunately, not one of tragedy. The into the boat, the rescued men jumped

ent.