... The Orleans Lamplighter
At Rock Harbor lived the old lamplighter of Orleans, Josh Northrup, who took the job when the good ladies of the church—The Sewing Circle and Female Samaritan Society—organized the Orleans Street Lighting Club.
For years Josh was a familiar figure, making his rounds up and down the streets with his ladder, oil, and matches. Josh listened with a philosophical nod to all the complaints of the townsfolk, and was often heard to sigh:
“I’d start on one end of my beat quite a while before dark and folks around there would get all set up by the spectacle of me burning oil before sundown. By the time I reached the other end, it was after dark, and durned if the fools down that end didn’t kick cuz they weren’t getting their money’s worth.”
The lamplighter’s set of rules decreed that the lights were not to be lit on what the calendar called a “moonlight night” whether the moon could be seen or not. Thus the most dangerous time to be strolling along the streets was apt to be on a scheduled moonlight night, for Josh always stuck religiously to the calendar.
... The Giant of
Longnook Valley
Truro is on that part of the narrow land that sweeps inward at the crook of the Cape’s long arm to form Provincetown. Here where the scrub pines grow tough and scrawny, and the Truro Hills roll from backside to bayside tangled with a mesh-work of clinging bayberry, wild blueberry, sturdy beach plum, and coarse hog cranberry, is Long Nook Valley, a deep hewn wedge carved in the rugged face of the lower Cape ... a valley that stretches from the broad waters of the Atlantic on one side of Cape Cod to the deep half-moon waters of Cape Cod Bay on the other. Straight through the Truro Hills goes Long Nook Valley. The ancient sun shines down on a place as old as Time, a place primitive, wild, and strangely beautiful. From the deep floor of the valley, the hills rise to the sky, silhouetted with the bony-fingered scrub pines. In this time-scarred gouge through the hills, legends could well have started, and superstition and folklore have their ancient origin.
The formation of Long Nook Valley is a legend itself and concerns Meloof, a giant legendary figure who lived in the Cape region even before the great glacier came down from the north to chew deep paths in the surface of the earth ... when this earth was filled with mysterious mists and vapours, rising from a land and sea still in a state of flux and yet unformed.
With arms as long and mammoth as the towering elms of Yarmouth, and legs packed with resilient strength of the mast of a great schooner, with a chest as huge and powerful as the ancient Hercules, Meloof was no mortal man. His voice could bring the wild rains down from the skies, his whisper could churn the waters of the sea into white foam. Meloof could stand in the deepest waters of Cape Cod Bay, and by stretching out his arms, touch with one fingertip what is now Provincetown, and with the other, what is now Orleans.
When Meloof got into his fishing craft, the waters all along the Cape shores rose as if in swift high tide. This boat was immense, its sides thick and massive, its length enough to hold even the giant’s tremendously long legs, gargantuan frame, and seven league boots. Out in the wide, free expanse of the Atlantic, in the mist and haze, went Meloof for a day of fishing. Where the hot sun shot through the steams and vapours, Meloof dropped anchor. He lay back in his boat, holding in his great hands his fish pole, made from the top of a 200 foot pine tree. These huge trees grew in great profusion at one time over the Cape, until a tidal wave came and stripped the lower Cape of every living thing, leaving in its wake the dwarfed, grotesquely scrawny pine trees now found there. Meloof lolled about on the waters, dreaming giant dreams, his line slack in his hands.
Meloof was shaken from his lethargy! The fishing line was a lashing whip in his hands! The pole bent and arched into the water like the tautly drawn bow of an Indian. It quivered and trembled. It snapped up and down. It swished to and fro in the air. Meloof’s shoulders were wrenched with the sudden pull at the line, and his boat was nearly capsized by the tremendous snap of the line—suddenly, he knew what lay at the end! The giant, the prize of the deep waters that Meloof had time and again stalked and hunted, but without success.
In one swift movement, Meloof uncoiled his huge frame and sprang to his feet, bracing them hard against the sides of the boat. His nostrils dilated, and his eyes were wild and eager with the anticipation of a battle with an adversary worthy of his own size and strength. Meloof’s muscles bulged like the sides of a water cask. Blue rope veins throbbed in his temples. Sweat poured down his massive back, and the cords in his huge powerful wrists and hands stood out like hawser lines. With a great bellow, Meloof threw back his head and braced himself more firmly against the furious strain of the battle.
As abruptly as it had started, the tight drawn tension of the line slackened. Then, in another instant, the line sprang taut and alive when the creature at the end of Meloof’s line propelled itself out of the water and into the air several hundred feet. A giant codfish, with scales as large and thick as oversize barn shingles, eyes as big and bulging as washtubs, and a gaping slash of mouth as wide as a cave, twisted and turned in the air. A frenzied monster of the dark waters, the giant cod thrashed about in an effort to escape.
Back and forth raced the giant cod. Blue calm waters churned white and angry. Breakers house-high piled up on the shores. The whiplash of the line through the water, the rushing of the boat back and forth, made mountainous waves and whipped the wind to gale force. The cod broke surface, and then sounded the depths again. Then up-up- into the air until Meloof’s line was almost perpendicular to the water. No rearing stallion of the gods and his deity rider had such a battle. The victory would go to the wiliest strategist, and this the cod seemed to sense, for, with its eyes red with fear and anger, its fins quivering with the strain of battle, it leapt into the air once more, and then plunged into the water, sounding bottom. There it pivoted about and headed straight for land. The water foamed white from the speed of the cod’s course, and, behind him, fanned out in an arc as it was cleaved by the bow of Meloof’s boat.
The bullet-like course which sped Meloof and his craft straight towards shore was perhaps more terrible than the actual battle in the ocean. The shore loomed bigger ahead of him, but still Meloof held fast. His tremendous strength was sapped from the strain of the battle, but he still had a giant’s determination to conquer. With a last surge of strength, the cod ceased its twisting, turning, gyrations and plowed through the shallow waters of the shore, up and over the beach, and straight into the Hills of Truro, dragging Meloof and his boat behind him!
Rocks and boulder formations cracked and split, hurled up and aside like pebbles. The sky was dark with flying particles of sand and earth. Right across the Cape from Atlantic to Bay furrowed the frenzied cod and its tenacious captor, plowing and ripping a deep scar through the hills!
And thus was formed Long Nook Valley in Truro on Cape Cod. Traces of the giant cod are found even today in the form of fish scales as large as barn shingles. Some say that these fish scales are really pieces of mica, left by the great glacier movement down from the north, but Cape Codders know better. They are the petrified scales of the legendary giant cod that hauled Meloof and his boat straight across the Cape through the hills of Truro, forming Long Nook Valley.
... Cupid and the
Tree Warden
A portly Cape Codder, while in the midst of his political campaign for the position of local tree warden, strolled one evening into a tavern in search of relaxation and rest from his campaigning. Nodding affably to the various customers, he noticed among those present a man who was obviously there for a long and festive evening. This brought to mind the intriguing thought that the lady with whom the convivial gentleman was then “keeping company” would probably be at home alone and in a mood to welcome visitors. Our hero, not one to let such a promising opportunity pass him by, made a snap decision and hied himself off to the lady’s house. So Cupid smiled, but, in the offing, trouble brewed.
The other gentleman observed the approach and quick retreat of the political Lothario, became suspicious, and he too left the tavern, only a scant half hour after the departure of his rival. Both male pride and indignation were aroused when he arrived at the lady’s home, for there he found the aspiring town official clad only in his underwear, which even on Cape Cod is not considered correct attire for a social visit.
Stunned by this disregard of convention, the lady’s rather beery protector seized the visitor by the neck and seat of his union suit, and hove him in the direction of the front door.
Now no man likes to walk down Main Street in his underwear on a sharp January night. The tree warden candidate was no exception. He did not depart meekly. He did in fact, give forceful and valiant opposition to the attack of his enraged and indignant adversary. It was quite a battle, and caused a riotous commotion and an alarming collapse of furniture. After a mighty tussle, the defender of the weaker sex and convention found himself the victor, and the politician found himself out on his ear—and in his underwear—in the cold night.
But at this moment of victory, the local constabulary forces, who had been called by the lady in question, arrived on the scene. As the minion of the law marched away with the wildly gesticulating and indignant attacker, the underwear-clad politician, who was brushing twigs and snow off his union suit, called out, “Hi boys! Don’t forget I’m running for tree warden!”
...The Singing Fish of
Monomoy Point
In a small, musty, canvas bound book, unopened for years, was found a story of such beauty and wonder that it escapes the imagination. Each whisper of the turning pages which sent puffs of memory-filled dust into the air, spoke of a day long ago, when a young man found an island Paradise. The story in the ancient journal was dedicated to the writer’s wife, Jessie, and is presented as a possible solution to the strange humming sounds heard now and again off Monomoy Point in Chatham on Cape Cod.
It was long ago, when I was young and adventurous, and on one of my first important sailings, that this amazing thing occurred. We were bound for the Indies, and while rounding Cape Horn, ran full into a swift and violent storm that was unexplainable. For one moment, the waters were as calmly blue as those of Scargo Lake in Dennis on a clear summer day, and the next, they were scowling, angry, and black. The sky shook its fist at our ship and sent down to us such winds and fierce rains as I have never seen before. All about us was billowing, unpenetrable gray, and all hands felt the atmosphere alive with some strange force. Our navigation equipment seemed frozen, and our rudder was cracked by the mountainous waves that crashed against our ship. We lived in darkness, and floundered around in that sea of gray for five terrible days. At the end of the fifth day, a calm, a stillness came, as suddenly as the attacking storm, and this silence seemed the more terrible because of its contrast with the wild gray days through which we had just passed.
All hands came above, and though none spoke a word, I knew that a strange fear gripped the heart of each of my shipmates. I am not a poet or a man of letters, and my words, however carefully written here, could not adequately describe the scene which met our eyes.
We found ourselves floating in the midst of a strange, dead sea from which we could not escape. I thought at first that it might be Sargaso Sea, for the waters were filled with weird strands of sea plant life, with roots as big as boulders, but common sense and knowledge of the map made that impossible. The sea on which we drifted was a sea of powerful currents, each eddying in opposite directions. The water, so clear we could see the smooth white bottom 50 fathoms below, was a curious turquoise, streaked with brightest greens and pinks. All around us were the listing, vacant skeletons of ships that had found their unexplainable way here before us. Monstrous fish, and fish no larger than a hair, swam through the waters. These fish were gold, green, blue, and red; striped, streaked, and dotted with the most amazing panorama of colors. Strange hued birds with weird calls flew overhead, and over all this amazing scene there was an intense, stifling silence.
We drifted about under the hand of the changing currents for six weeks, and lived from the waters around us. Some of the sea vegetation, when pulled up, proved to be clean and sweetly edible, and the strange, bright colored fish were easily caught. During this period, although we were well fed, and temporarily safe, we grew restless, and conflictions sprang up at every turn. For however well fed and kept a man may be, the fear of the unknown, and a wondering about when he will see familiar land and beloved faces, keeps him forever unhappy and discontent. Moreover, we were all consumed with the most intense curiosity about our strange surroundings. And always in our minds and before our eyes were the bare hulks of the other ships, caught in the sea, which we all hoped would not prove to be prophetic to us.
We had, at the end of our six weeks of drifting, sunk so low in our spirits, and become so apathetic about our situation, that we became lax in our shipboard duties. As the days dragged by, we assigned one watch for the long nights, and another for the daylight hours. I am sure that if these men had been watched, they would have been observed dozing at their posts, for none of us expected anything unusual to happen, and by this time moved in that aimless lethargy of men without aim or purpose.
It was on the morning of what I presumed to be the 42nd day of our drifting, that a frenzied shout from the night watch jolted us from our bunks. Land had been sighted, and all hands, laughing and shouting like men freed from long imprisonment, sprang to work, long neglected, to reach this land. But each time we came close enough to use the small landing boats, the land seemed to move away from us, until at last we found that the land sighted was a cluster of many sized and shaped floating islands, the largest of which became our goal. These islands moved on the conflicting currents, and seemed forever out of our reach. Finally, at the close of four days of chasing the island, we were caught up on a current that crossed with that of the largest, and it was there, on a strange, disjointed piece of land, on a strange, cut-off sea, that we found what seemed to all of us to be our dream of Paradise.
The island was verdantly green, overflowing with exotic flowers, and huge graceful trees which bore sweet succulent fruit. A heavy, jasmine-sweet scent was in the gentle winds. Here was a land of such incredible beauty and serenity that I knew somehow no men had ever been there before. Small, spring-fed streams veined over the island, and the water from these streams was like the coolest nectar. The days were always full of sunshine, and the sky a shimmering blue, but for all that sun, the days were never more than comfortably warm. The island nights were nights of incredible beauty. The waters shone with a thousand, a million diamonds of phosphorus, the night air was cool and sweet, and the stars above seemed close enough to pluck from the sky. Day and night, the peace and serenity none of us had ever experienced before was over all, and I yearn for that serenity to this day. There is always, I believe now, that feeling over those wonders of Nature untouched by Man.
Perhaps it was because they had lived so long in strangeness and uncertainty that they had become apathetic, or perhaps it was because they had found on this island Paradise the very essence of their hidden dream of peace and beauty—whatever the reason, the men who had been my companions and shipmates all through these amazing happenings, now seemed content to loll beneath the palm trees, swim in the clear, warm water, or fish from the canoes which they had fashioned. I heard no mention of returning to Cape Cod, nor saw any desire nor yearning for familiar faces and home land. We had established, in a small sheltered cove at the south of the island where we had first landed, our headquarters. Here we had everything necessary for living. A small stream was close at hand, the sea was at our doorstep, and the cove was abundant with the coconut trees, the tropical fruit bushes, and a plentiful amount of trees suitable for building and firewood. My mates seemed perfectly content to stay in this restricted area, and seemed to have no desire to explore further the island upon which we had landed. But, although I too felt that serenity, happiness, and contentment, I yearned to explore the rest of the island, for I felt that there were other mysteries and wonders yet to be seen.
The rest of the island, which I set out to explore on the sixth day of our stay, was much like the small part in which we had encamped, but seemed to grow increasingly more beautiful as I travelled inland. All through the morning, I tramped through the thick growth of the island, coming now and then upon small glades, where damp, fresh green moss surrounded little pools and silvery streams. These glades were dark and cool, and the air was pure and refreshing.
As I neared what I judged to be the centermost part of the island, I broke through a wall of the island greenery, and saw, like a blazing jewel in a setting of green, a lake, its waters of glowing, deep blue. This lake was surrounded by long-leaved trees, like the weeping willow I had seen at home, that trailed to the thick carpet of rich green moss below. Curling vine tendrils, dashed here and there with dots of red berries and exotic flowers, locked themselves around the giant cypress trees. The sun pointed shafts of dull gold through the trees that clasped their hands overhead, and the air was alive, vital, and refreshingly cool, a direct contrast to the pleasant, but heavy, sensuously sweet smell of the rest of the island.
The cool, secluded lakeside oasis was a perfect place to stop from my exploring, so I settled down on a soft knoll of moss, ate fruit from nearby trees, and drank the sweet coconut milk. I must have fallen into a deep and restful sleep, for I suddenly started up, arrested by sounds which I first attributed to dreams. The silence and serenity was still in the air, but there came to my ears, attuned by the deep silence to any small sound, a strange, melodic humming. I was aware through some instinct that I must not move. As I strained my ears, the humming became louder, and looking over the lake, I saw its smooth surface ripple as if a child had thrown a handful of pebbles onto it. The humming vibrations seemed to have their source directly in the lake.
I could sit still no longer, and crept slowly to the water’s edge. The ripples grew larger, and to my amazed eyes there appeared a hundred or so small fish, whose brilliantly colored bodies shimmered and vibrated. These fish were singing! The humming grew in intensity, and I was able to recognize several of the melodies; Scottish airs, South African chants, Southern Negro songs, Cape Cod sea chanties, Lullabies—all these came to my ear on a wave of the most beautiful harmony I have ever heard. My brain reeled with the phenomena and the beauty of the music. I could not believe what my own ears and eyes told me, and made a sudden movement toward the water. The humming ceased instantly, the fish vanished, and the water’s surface was as smooth as before. The great silence once more filled the atmosphere. I felt a strange exultation as I made my way back to the camp, and though I said nothing of this amazing discovery to my companions, I determined to return to the lake of the humming fish the next day.
Day after day I returned to the green, cool loveliness surrounding the lake of the humming fish. And each day I awoke wondering what I could find there. At times the fish would seem to greet me with their burst of humming, but upon other occasions they never appeared. It was on those days of silence that I began to think that I was fast approaching insanity. As the days passed, I became more hypnotized by the phenomena of these humming fish. Gradually they seemed to become accustomed to my presence, and two of the boldest allowed me to feed them small bits of berry and weed that I tossed to them. Several times these two came to the surface alone, and refused to hum until I had given them the food. I began to think of these two fish, which were bright silver in color, with gorgeous stripes of deepest blue, green, and yellow, as my own.
My strange rendezvous with the humming fish continued for several weeks, and when my mates at last came from their dream-world and began thinking of home and family, I determined to capture the two fish and carry them home with me. At length our ship, which we had all considered wrecked beyond repair, was mended enough to warrant an attempt to leave the island and the sea of currents.
On my last journey to the lake of the humming fish, which I had come to consider as my own piece of paradise and contentment, I lured the small humming fish into a wide-mouthed jug, filled with water from their own lake. I supplied myself also with three kegs of this same lake water, and prepared to carry the fish home with me.
I will not dwell on the voyage home, it suffices to say that we all arrived safely, and pledged ourselves to secrecy about the island and the sea we had visited. At home harbor, each man went his separate way, and I, with my humming fish, strode home through the darkness, taking the shortcut around Monomoy Point. The night was dark as ink, and I stumbled from weariness, dropping the precious keg of fish on the rocks at the water’s edge, and the two humming fish escaped. It seemed at that moment that all I had experienced was a dream, for in the vanishing of the fish, only the memory of my island paradise could remain.
For days I walked to the spot at Monomoy Point where the fish had escaped. I called to them as I had at the island lake, and left small bits of their favorite berry food at the water’s edge, but they could not, or would not, appear.
You are perhaps wondering why I kept silent so long. I had a wife and three children, and I was a man of good name in my Cape Cod community, and could not risk their well being by the revelation of this incident, which would surely mark me as touched. And further, I did not wish to have this most wonderful of experiences tarnished and bandied about by unimaginative and callous cynics.
It has been many years since I have gone to Monomoy Point in an attempt to call back the humming fish from that loveliest lake on the island paradise, but I have never forgotten them or the place in which I first found them. All my recollections are as vivid and as real as the day when I first found myself in that strange and beautiful setting.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.