Every yot wuz tootin’ on its own separate engine; it made the seen lively but not melogious. One of the boats had a whistle that sounded as if you’d begin to holler down real low and then let your voice rise gradual till you yelled out jest as loud as you could, and then died down your yell agin real low.
It sounded curous. I hearn it wuz tryin’ to raise and fall the eight notes, and it riz and fell ’em I should judge.
Some of the yots had a loud shrill whistle, some a little, fine clear one; then one would belch out low and deep some like thunder. And anon our steamer thundered forth its own deep belchin’ whistle, and turned round graceful and backed off, and puffed, puffed back agin down the bay.
As we turned round, a bystander, standin’ by, spoke of Bonnie Castle. It stood up sort o’ by itself on a rock one side of Alexandria Bay. And I wondered if Holland’s earnest soul that had thought so much on’t once, ever looked down on it now. For instance when the full moon wuz high in the cloudless sky, and Bonnie Castle riz up fair as a dream, with blue clear sky above, and silence, and deep blue shinin’ water below—and silence. And mebby some 52 night bird singin’ out of the pretty green garden to its mate in the cool shadows. I wondered if the lovin’ soul who created it ever looked down from the blessed life, with love and longin’ to the old earth-nest—home of his heart. I spozed that he did, but couldn’t tell for certain. For the connection has never been made fast and plain on the Star Route to Heaven. Love rears its stations here and tries to take the bearin’s, but we hain’t quite got the wires to jine. Sometimes we feel a faint jarrin’ and thrill as if there wuz hands workin’ on the other end of the line. We feel the thrill, we see the glow of the signal lights they hold up, but we can’t quite ketch the words. We strain our ears through the darkness—listening! listening!
Right acrost from Alexandria Bay is Heart Island; you’d know it at night if you couldn’t see the island, for a big heart of flashin’ electric lights is lifted up on a high pole, that can be seen fur and near. As well as the big shinin’ cross of light that is lifted up every night on another island nigh by in memory of a sweet soul that used to live there, and is lookin’ down on it now, more’n as likely as not.
Heart Island is owned by a rich New York man. It is almost covered with buildin’s of 53 different sizes and ruined castles (the ruins all new, you know; ruined a-purpose), the buildin’s made of the gray stun the island is composed of. And there are gorgeous flower beds and lawns green as emerald, and windin’ walks lined with statuary, and rare vases runnin’ over with blossoms and foliage, and a long, cool harbor, fenced in with posies where white swans sail, archin’ up their proud necks as if lookin’ down on common ducks and geese. There wuz ancient stun architecture, and modern wood rustic work, and I sez to Josiah, “They believe in not slightin’ any of the centuries; they’ve got some of most every kind of architecture from Queen Mary down to Taft.”
And he sez, “It is a crackin’ good plan too; amongst all on ’em they’re sure to git some of the best.”
“Yes,” sez I, “and it shows a good-hearted sperit too, not wantin’ to slight anybody.”
Jest then I heard a bystander say, “Amongst all the places to the Islands, this place and Browney’s take the cake.”
Brownings is another beautiful place just round the corner where the flower-garlanded rocks looks down into the deep clear waters anxious to see their own beauty. And a handsome 54 residence a little back and a big farm full of everything desirable.