Rockhaven

by Charles Clark Munn

And, too, it has had its religious revival, when a wave of Bible reading and conversion swept over its poorly fed people, to be followed by a split in its one Baptist church on the merits and truths of close communion or its opposite, to end in the formation of another.

It also had its moods, fair and charming when the warm south wind barely ripples the blue sea about, the wild roses smile between its granite ledges, and the sea-gulls sail leisurely over them; or else gloomy and solemn when it lies hid under a pall of fog while the ocean surges boom and bellow along its rock-ribbed shore.

On the inner and right-hand shore of the secure harbor, a small fishing village fringes both sides of a long street, and at the head of the harbor, one mile away, stands another hamlet. The first and larger village is called Rockhaven, the other Northaven. Each has its little church and schoolhouse, also used for town meetings, its one or two general stores, and a post-office. Those in Rockhaven, where fishing is the sole industry, are permeated with that salty odor of cured fish, combined with tar, coffee, and kerosene; and scattered over the interior are a score of modest farmhouses.

At one end of the harbor, and where the village of Northaven stands, a natural gateway of rock almost cuts off a portion of the harbor, and here was an old tide mill, built of unhewn stone, but now unused, its roof fallen in, its gates rotted away, and the abutments that once held it in place now used to support a bridge.

On one of the headlands just north of Rockhaven village, and known as Norse Hill, stands a peculiar structure, a circular stone tower open at the top and with an entrance on the inner or landward side. Tradition says this was built by the Norsemen as a place of worship. Beyond this hill, at the highest point of the island, is a deep fissure in the coast, ending in a small open cave above tidewater and facing the south. This is known as the Devil's Oven. On either side of this gorge, and extending back from it, is a thicket of stunted spruce. The bottom and sides of this inlet, semicircular in shape, are coated thick with rockweed and bare at low tide. On the side of the harbor opposite Rockhaven, and facing it, is a small granite quarry owned and occasionally operated by one of the natives, a quaint old bachelor named Jesse Hutton. In summer, and until late in the fall, each morning a small fleet of fishing craft spread their wings and sail away, to return each night. On the wharves and between most of the small brown houses back of them, are fish racks of various sizes, interspersed with tiny sheds built beside rocks, old battered boats, piles of rotting nets, broken lobster pots, and a medley of wrack of all sorts and kinds, beaten and bleached by the salty sea.

In summer, too, a white-winged yacht, trim and trig, with her brass rails, tiny cannon, and duck-clad crew, occasionally sails into the harbor and anchors, to send her complement of fashionable pleasure-seekers ashore. Here they ramble along the one main street, with its plank walk, peeping curiously into the open doors and windows of the shops, at the simply clad women and barefooted children who eye them with awe. Each are as wide apart from the other as the poles in their dress, manners, and ways of living, and each as much a curiosity to the other.

Of the social life of the island there is little to be said, for it is as simple as the garb of its plain people, who never grow rich and are seldom very poor. Each of the two villages is blessed with a diminutive church, Baptist in denomination, the one at Rockhaven the oldest and known as Hard-Shell; that at Northaven as Free-Will. Each calls together most of the womenkind and grown-up children, as well as a few of the men, every Sunday, while the rest of the men, if in summer, lounge around the wharves smoking and swapping yarns. There is no great interest in religion among either sex, and church attendance seems more a social pleasure than a duty.

Occasionally a few of the young people will get together, as young folks always do, to play games; and though it is in the creed of both churches that dancing is to be abjured, nevertheless old Jess Hutton, whose fiddle was his wife, child, and sole companion in his solitude, was occasionally induced to play and call off for the lads and lasses of the town, with a fringe of old folks around the walls as spectators.

"I like to see 'em dance," he always said, "fer they look so happy when at it; 'sides, when they get old they won't want to. Dancin's as nat'ral to young folks as grass growin' in spring."

Every small village has its oracle, whose opinion on all matters passes current as law and gospel, whose stories and jokes are repeated by all, and who is by tacit consent chosen moderator at town meetings, holds the office of selectman and chairman of the school committee for life, is accepted as referee in all disputes, and the friend, counsellor, and adviser of all. Such a man in Rockhaven was Jesse Hutton. Though he argued with the Rev. Jason Bush, who officiated at Rockhaven on Sundays, about the unsocial nature of close communion, and occasionally met and had a tilt with the Northaven minister, he was a friend to both.