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Originally published in the Historic Nantucket, Vol. 44, no. 2 (Summer 1994), p. 41-49

Memories of "Old 'Sconset"
by Alice Beers

A gentle look at gentler times is found in Miss Alice Beers's recollections of 'Sconset, first published in Historic Nantucket in 1986 and 1987.

The Ocean View House, Siasconset, c. 1890

You have inquired when I would write my memoirs of Nantucket—of 'Sconset. I wonder why I should, or who would care. The only reason for committing any such matter to paper is that I have lived so long and do recall, mistily, so much that has vanished, that was so lively, so happy.

Last summer, waiting at the airport in the late afternoon to greet a guest, I fell into chat with a lady, who like myself, was fretting over the delay of the arrival of a plane—hers from Boston, mine from New York. At some point in our talk she asked me how long I had been coming to the island. I thought a moment and then answered "I can't remember the exact year, but I remember it was before the Spanish-American War." She cast upon me a look of sheer unbelief and moved slightly away, as though from someone deranged.

But it happens to be true and I can recall our first trip to this island. My father, who was tall, fair and fat, suffered dreadfully from the heat of New York City and indeed the town of Yonkers on the Hudson where we lived was not cool. Someone told my father of an island where sea breezes blew and prickly heat existed not, so he set off with his family to explore. The family? My mother, my brother Tom, my little brother Richard, still a toddler, and Bridgit, our wonderful big, soft voiced Irish Bridgit, and myself, the eldest, age about nine.

The trip? It began with the Fall River Boat leaving in the late afternoon from near Fulton Street. The excitement to children of exploring those big, gaudy boats; of the first look at the cabin with its double berths, or bunks, the funny, salty smell of the little cabin, the first experiments with the little basins. But the really thrilling part was the passage of the boats around Manhattan Island, under the bridges—up the East River—where boys at about what is now fashionable Beekman Place were swimming and diving in the oily water. Finally slowly through Hells Gate (no bridge then), and into more open water. It was cool—fresh.

Dinner time, so down in the dining room to be served by friendly waiters; finally to bed in the little berths, the cool air through shutters, the tramp of feet on the decks. At some time in the night the ship rolled heavily—we were told we were rounding Point Judith. A noisy stop, at dawn's early light, was for Newport. Finally up, hurried breakfast, out and on the waiting train in Fall River; the engines puffing coal smoke — red plush seats in the car, very sooty. Finally, by train, carried through fields and towns we reach New Bedford, and there at the dock awaiting us another steamer.

This one is not so gaudy, simpler, and smelled authentically of the sea. We found chairs on a sheltered spot on deck for mother and the restless baby Richard and Bridgit. Tom and I roved, explored. There was a man on board who sold popcorn stickers—yellow, pink of various flavors. We were soon sticky with the stuff. We left, I believe, at 9 or 9:30—it was interesting even to a child to watch the departure from old New Bedford Harbor.

Then the open sea—much wind for little caps, or sailor hats; finally Woods Hole—people coming on, getting off, fun to watch the docking and leaving, all new. Now out into more open sea, and then stop at a strange looking town of tall wooden houses on shore—the old stop, Oak Bluffs, before Vineyard Haven in later years became the regular landing. This we learned was an island named Martha's Vineyard.

Now came the long stretch in rougher sea—though I do not recall any undue turbulence that day. The sudden rush to the ship's side and tossing of a bundle of paper to another ship—the Lightship we were told—and we stared wonderingly at the distant men on its decks, as we were told of their long, lonely weeks of duty.

Finally after what seemed to my mother an endless journey, we could contemplate the harbor of Nantucket.

I wish I could claim a clear recollection of the beauty of the harbor, the town and its three steeples, climbing up the slopes. Memory is overlaid with later, off-repeated impressions of the lovely moment. What I recall is confused excitement on the wharf, the many men from hotels with their carriages waiting—calling Ocean House, Springfield, Sea Cliff Inn. My father presently shepherded us to a little train, waiting near the wharf, and in we filed. That funny little train of yellow cars, straw seats and open windows.

My mother later confessed that she thought she was being dragged to the end of the earth—so weary, baffled she was. But presently we left the town and were moving through open fields and moors— and presently, too, there was the blue sea at our right. Then, said my mother later, she began to inhale the wonderful sweet, pure air, and she thought it was the loveliest, freshest air she had breathed since the days she rode horseback with her father in Colorado.

The little train ended its journey at a big red shed, at the foot of a low hill, 'Sconset Station. Up there we trudged and were led by father to a big, old-fashioned hotel—where he left us to wait—while he disappeared with a white-haired gentleman we learned was Mr. Underhill. Poor mother—more waiting with restless children. I chiefly recall the scent of the matting on the floor of a corridor. Finally, father returned and we were guided, though lanes and grassy roads, to a cluster of small, low-roofed, shingled cottages. One of these father had selected for our summer dwelling, one of the Underhill Settlement houses, built in imitation of the ancient little 'Sconset houses we soon came to know in the old section of the village. Exploration of the little rooms was an excitement to us children. One room was in a loft and had to be reached by a ladder! I don't know how we all packed in. There was a separate little cabin or house for Bridgit. This was simple living—no running water, bowl and pitcher, an out-house, oil lamps and candles.

I know we loved it soon.

And the next day all of us, in bathing suits of the period, emerged and made our way through that settlement, along the open street to the steps to the main beach—and here with what exhilaration we met the waves of the open Atlantic.

None of us could swim—all being midlanders by birth. In no time my father handed us over to a tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed man, with a yellow mustache, who shivered slightly, smiled comfortingly, and led us, in turn, into the waves. This was Jim Coffin, a great swimmer, who taught us all to swim. He was so tall he made nothing of the surf; he grasped us by the slack of our clothing and supporting us said "now go this way with your hands" which was just the breast stroke— and somehow we had no fear; the water, the waves, the backwash were fun, and very soon Tom and I were swimming alone.

Mother and father were both thus instructed by Mr. Coffin, though they neither became expert - just happy paddlers. Richard, at that time a dabbler only, ultimately became the good swimmer of the tribe.

That beach at 'Sconset! It was the focus of interest, the social center of 'Sconset in those early days. Many people had tents there, and, indeed, further north along the beach in front of summer houses as well. These tents were very plain affairs: canvas stretched over a ridge pole and fastened to four stout posts at the corners.

Of course at night these had to be furled as they would break loose in a high wind. They were mighty comfortable for resting between swims, visiting, or an afternoon nap. A few people, somewhat later, sported beach umbrellas. People formed in friendly groups—made dates for golf—after golf links were established — or tennis — after the casino and its courts were built. But in our very first years at 'Sconset there was just swimming, walking, resting in the afternoon on the beach—and many ladies took sewing or books to the beach for an afternoon under tent; the children played endlessly on the beach.

In those days there was active fishing off the 'Sconset shore. The dories lay bottom up in the sand and we children played about in their shade. It was great fun to see the men launch the dories through the surf, and, once outside, a little sail was hoisted. And it was exciting to see the boats landed through the surf later and observe the catch. There was a fisherman's settlement of shacks, just north of the main beach, on the sand below the bluff and one fisherman I recall had his market there, Stillman Cash, who for years was our friendly supplier. That settlement of fisherman's shacks grew and this section in these times is referred to as Codfish park. But the fishermen and their boats are gone.

What else was our recreation? Walking—everyone walked. We walked the lovely path along the bluff to Sankaty. We walked down the south shore—we walked the moors or for longer expeditions we drove to Sesachacha Pond, to Wauwinet, a long expedition! to hidden favorite spots or ponds on the moors. When I say drove you understand I mean with horse and buggy.

My mother loved flowers and plants, and often of an afternoon we would set off with Jim Coffin in his rig, for Mr. Coffin knew the plants of the Island with intimate affection, and beside being a good swimmer and good farmer, was also an excellent gardener. Experienced Nantucketers kept an open eye for wild grape, and beach plums; for the jellies and preserves made from these fruits were the pride of the good housekeeper.

I think that everyone in those early days had bicycles; a good many people had their own horses. What else filled our time? Well, there were amateur baseball games I recall, in open fields where such games could be quickly got up by a crowd of super active youths.

Our family spent only its first summer in the Underhill Settlement, after that we rented other small houses, in the village, then on the bluff for a couple of seasons the odd attractive house just above the fisherman's settlement, later the house of Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, and their daughter Rita. Many 'Sconset houses are peculiar; this one had a fascinating arrangement of two stairways to the second floor, but no communication between parts of the house served by said stairways.

After that period my father laid hand on a big white house on the edge of the bluff, just a step from the Robinson house, and here we perched for several summers. The house was referred to I think as the Bluff Cottage. It stood at the very beginning of the Path to Sankaty, and people turned through a little lane there onto the front bluff.

What was 'Sconset like in those pre-automobile, pre-airplane, pre-electricity, pre-telephone days?

One paved road from "Town," our Main or Milestone road led into the village. At the end, to the right, was the aforementioned old hotel. Lanes spread away, grass edged—with the old low houses of the village and on the bluff edge at that point a few summer homes. If one turned left from the end of the main road, walking a little north, one came to a little open space, where stood the Town Pump. This was an authentic old wooden pump and trough, and was used by many of the nearby dwellers. Indeed I clearly recall our Bridgit carrying buckets of water from the pump to the Bluff cottage—though all the houses had cisterns, little slate sinks and hand pumps in the kitchen.

Many of the larger houses built by "summer people" up the North Bluff or in the south part of 'Sconset had windmills, and therefore would have running water and proper bathrooms.

The pump stood in front of a store— Mr. Wally Brown's small general store. I am vague about what he sold, probably canned goods, but I remember him mainly for more important commodities—gum drops and sugar-coated almonds. Immediately upon arrival we made for Wally Brown's, and sustained and soothed by bags of gum drops and the sweet almonds, could set forth to check up on any changes in town. That little square was pretty in those days—with old houses on the little lanes branching off.

One particularly at the north side of the square was remarkable for the pitch of its roof. In midsummer a most glorious trumpet vine half covered the slanting end. A step or two through a short lane led to the main street, always in my memory called Broadway-it was in any case a bit broad-er-with wide grass paths, the road itself just a rutted road with generous lines of grass along the middle. It was a charming street lined each side with the old low, slant roofed, shingled houses. The little yards were open to the street, not as today smothered in high privet hedges. One or two boasted climbing roses, or a few small plantings of garden flowers, but in those far-off days things were simpler; there was not the conscious effort at gardening of today.

At any rate this was a charming street and the overworked word picturesque is appropriate to describe it. Many of these homes belonged to Nantucketers, others to "off-islanders" with Nantucket roots or relatives. A few were rented to summer people.

As one passed up the little street one came to a shop on the left—a rather open affair with roofed verandah. Within a white-haired, white-coated man in a straw hat presided over his counters; this was Mr. Burgess and this was the village meat market.

At the end of Broadway—facing you— was a small house, in the front window of which sat an old man, with lean, straight features, keen eyes, "watching the pass." He saluted you with a brief nod, unsmiling. For years it seemed to me this same face was there, sardonic, intimidating to a child—Sam Pitman.

If you turned to the left here you came to the end of the parallel street and the beginning of the highway which led in the direction of Sesachacha Pond and Sankaty. But the last village house at that point was called Le Petit Cottage, and in it was a little shop of those oddments and women's necessities usually called "notions." The proprietress was a quiet, slim, grey-haired lady, a Mrs. Winslow. In a room at the back sat her husband carving and putting together the little sailors with outstretched oars that whirled in the wind, to give you its direction. We loved them and always had one on our porch,

It was a typical old Nantucket shop and the story I am about to tell is typical and oft told of many shopkeepers in Town. I believe them all!

One day I was sent by mother to Mrs. Winslow's for some ribbon, a small amount for some forgotten purpose. When Mrs. Winslow measured her stock of that ribbon, she found our request would take it all. "Oh—I couldn't sell it all," she said. "But—why?" "Oh—I would not have any for other customers."

From the end of Broadway, in front of old Pitman's window, one passed to the open bluff, just overlooking the fisherman's settlement below. Here one met the path to Sankaty, a narrow right of way which passed along the bluff north to Sankaty Light, with the beach below and the open Atlantic beyond, and to the left the various summer homes in a variety of architectural styles, most of them owned by people from "off-island" who had long summered in 'Sconset.

They came from the middle-west— Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, from Philadelphia, Providence, Poughkeepsie, Boston, New York, Washington. Let me say here that when we arrived, there was a definite settled summer population. That "Underhill Settlement," in the south part of the town, of little houses set down in open fields had no doubt been built to meet the need for more cottages to rent.

There is a legend, born of the American talent for building propaganda on the shaky base of an event or brief moment, that 'Sconset was discovered and made known by actors from New York. The Underhill Settlement did house a few for a while, but bus drivers were wont to tour through those lanes pointing out Actors' Colony long after many of the little cottages had passed into private hands. Innocent and anonymous owners, hiding in a bit of back garden, would listen as their home was described as part of "the Actors' Colony."

Flat statements and generalities are dangerous, but I would venture that in that year, before the Spanish-American War, when we first came to 'Sconset, no actor had discovered the island, or the easy, peaceful informality of life in 'Sconset.

That they did, many of them in a few years infiltrated the quiet spot is a fact. Many came, and left, after a short stay, not a few bought homes or built. Many became part of the community, in a settled, pleasant way, joined the "old timers" as friends and neighbors. I cherish memories of dignified old Mrs. Gilbert, in a rocking chair on the porch of the lovely old house George Fawcett and his wife owned on the main road. Frank Gilmore and his pretty wife were here, settled summer residents, with their two pretty little girls; indeed, being older, I watched Margalo and Ruth grow up, and Margaret Fawcett, daughter of George, who lived in the old Fawcett house, "Rosemary." Another who with her sisters melted into the community, was lovely Isabel Irving. She built a big summer cottage on the north bluff, next to one my father bought for the family later.

But back to those early times, and the life we lived: housekeeping was simple— coal stoves in the kitchen, with the occasional oil stove as an adjunct, or, in a tiny house, the only cooker. In the Bluff Cottage a coal stove was Bridgit's to manage. With only Wally Brown and Mr. Burgess as suppliers of staples and meat, one turned to the farmers. Milk and cream came from Mr. Harry Dunham; vegetables, for us, from Mr. Henry Coffin. They drove in with their farm wagons and came to your door. As to the "staff of life" I am sure there were women who baked bread on order, and I remember clearly going on Saturday evening to Mrs. Folger, across from the Chapel, for Boston brown bread and baked beans.

It is certain that for fruit, more meat supplies and extras there were trips to Town on the little yellow train. On such occasions, if we children were allowed to go, we visited the Women's Exchange in a little house on Main Street near the Bank, where delicious cakes were to be found; and sometimes were taken for ice cream, home-made of course, to a quiet house that seemed to me was on Orange Street. In a still parlor, we ate large saucers of rich chilling stuff.

What was our average day in those early years? One woke to the sound of a coffee mill, and presently the aroma of fresh made coffee. A hearty breakfast, eggs, biscuits, home made bread—then for us children, out to look up friends, perhaps a short bicycle ride. But it was soon time to don the bathing suits and descend to the main beach to swim and sun and idle and visit till our parents pulled us away for a mid-day meal, which was ample to meet appetites whetted by salt air and exercise. In the years before the Golf Club, before the Casino, we invented our own entertainment for the afternoons. While we were in the Bluff Cottage came the establishment of the Golf Club—and there was a persistent legend in our family that my father and his friend, John Grout, were the originators of the scheme. Certainly my father was interested. A part of Mr. Henry Coffin's land, on the main road, was adopted. A beautiful big old house on high ground became the simple club house. At first 9 holes were laid out, later 18. I well remember the arrival of the golf clubs from Spauldings in New York for Tom and me—short, being for our young years, and very stiff of shaft. I do not remember how we got to the Links, probably walked or bicycled. We all, father, mother, and the young, attempted this sport, none of us with any distinction except the youngest, Richard, who later developed into a pretty good golfer. But the club was a success and became a focus for summer events. The Saturday afternoon matches were graced by ladies' teas in the big room of the old house, and many a cucumber sandwich I passed or helped make for those events.

And in those years while we were at the Bluff Cottage the Siasconset Casino had been established in 1900. Tennis courts appeared where once was a field, and a building with a large hall, where evening dances might be held, and concerts, morning, afternoon, or evening. Finally, what with a stage there, why not some theatricals, and, as by the time the Casino was running, the theater folk were with us in strength, performances were arranged of mixed short scenes, recitals and songs, some by the professional actors, some by local talent among the summer folk.

The Casino faced on the broad street leading west from Pump Square—and on that street beyond the Casino, stood the Union Chapel. Sunday morning its bell rang out across the quiet town, more metallic, not so musical as the great bell in the Unitarian Church in Town, but all the same a firm reminder of the day. If one arrived as the final tug at the bell was pulled, one found George Rogers, dressed in his best, releasing the rope. George—a local character, of importance—deserves a special page to himself.

The services were usually taken by some minister living in 'Sconset for the summer—or visiting churchman. The choir was made up of faithful amateurs from among us summer folk—Minnie Chittenden, Eloise McCreary, her brother Lewis, come mistily back to me.

Sunday to my Presbyterian mother was a day set aside, when one did not indulge in the recreations of the week. Therefore, for many summers we were not allowed to swim. We could walk, read, or rest, but no games, no swimming. This was a trial to us, and our adolescent years saw this edict broken. But I imagine other young things of like upbringing suffered the same ruling.

Events of the week-days centered about the mail arrivals and departures, which in turn depended on the arrival and departure of the steamer to the island. A boat left at 7 AM, another arrived at noon, or 1 or 2—left carrying passengers and mail and another arrived in the evening carrying mail and passengers, remained overnight—left 7 AM.

The post office in our first years occupied a small building perched on a wooden bridge which spanned a gully, and low road to the railroad station. It was the thing to go wait for the mail to be sorted, and perch on the rails of the bridge, or lean, talking to friends. A few people had boxes, but most of us lined up when the little window opened and took our mail from Miss Anna Barrett, the postmistress.

Later the Post Office was moved to another building, facing the end of the main road, and at the entrance, so to speak, of the village. In this Post Office stood a public telephone, for long the only public phone in 'Sconset. Indeed I would guess very few houses had telephones in that period at the turn of the century.

The little narrow-gauge railroad was our communication with Town, Nantucket Town, and shops, a library, the Atheneum, newspapers, and a telegraph office. My recollection is that office had independent hours, closing at 6 and over Sunday. In fact we rather rejoiced in our isolation, our escape from the pressures of city life, and bragged of it.

Nantucket had one newspaper, a weekly called The Inquirer and Mirror. It was printed on fine, crisp, white stock 44 inches wide. In its versions as we first knew it the paper had great character as a truly local expression of town interest. Nantucketers of those days still retained much of the independence of their ancestors, a considerable sense of superiority to the inhabitants of the mainland. Social notes frequently reported Mrs. X. Coffin "visiting friends in America." Local news events were reported, shipping, fishing and weather, very little national news concerning country-wide events appeared. The Editor, in our first years here, was Mr. Roland B. Hussey, a tall, agreeable man with a keen wit. He and his delightful little wife lived in 'Sconset in their pretty house at the beginning of Shell Street.

Trips to Nantucket Town were special events. There was shopping to be done, and most of the shops for meat, or groceries, or clothing, or material were on Main Street, in that short stretch between the Bank and the Pacific Club at the foot of Main. It was easy to go in an out with your basket, selecting what you needed. In the dry goods shop at the corner of Fair and Main it seemed always there was a very stiff New England air, a polite reserve about the lady clerks. I relished it as I grew older and regretted the disappearance of such shops and their keepers.

Of course there were small businesses on some of the other streets—Centre and Federal. I can recall better what were not than what exactly existed.

I recall substantial hardware shops, full of gear needed for boats, drug stores, substantial food shops. Some furniture was sold,and there were definitely some Antique shops, a few of which had the furniture of island estates. There was always one shop kept by an Armenian where rugs were sold and embroideries.

Down at the wharves was where the real business went on. First of all Steamboat Wharf where naturally the goods carried to the island were unloaded for, although at that time, say about 1899-1914, there were more farms on the island. Many necessities such as coal, wood, oil and dry goods had to be imported.

Then, across a pretty basin, where some small boats were anchored came Old North Wharf, and the series of wharves where the serious business of the fisherman's world went forward, the anchored boats, nets, and shacks and boat houses.

On rare occasions for an all day expedition we went to Town, carrying a picnic lunch and took the Lillian, a sail boat which carried passengers to Wauwinet on a regular schedule. There we liked to swim in the shallow harbor, lunch on the beach and return on the Lillian to Town— then by train to 'Sconset. As we were surf bathers, we thought it a change to swim occasionally at the Town beach in still water. And if a grown-up cousin or aunt was visiting, once in a long time we went to Town and engaged a sail boat to tour about the harbor for an afternoon.

But all this brief exploration of Town was just a special break in our long, sun and sea filled days on the 'Sconset shore. In those early days there existed a Museum, so called, on the second floor of the Atheneum. At some point in our young lives we discovered this spot as something to visit. It contained the small collection of whaling equipment and skeletons now so well established in our Whaling Museum. With permission from the lady librarian we mounted the stairs, and here met the Attendant in Charge. He had a routine outline of information which he recited. On a first visit some one of us interrupted him with a question. He stopped unwillingly, to answer, then unable to continue his routine went back to the beginning! This gave us astonished joy and I very much fear that when we took a young friend there later for a visit, we wickedly managed the same effect!

As far as our awareness of whaling and sailing voyages went there was plenty to remind us in 'Sconset: curious forms lying in front of cottages, often overgrown with flowers, were, we were told, the vertebrae of whales. Many a house had in the yard the painted figure of a woman in wind blown clothes—figurehead for some sailing ship of the past.

We loved the changes in waves and weather. The big storms were an excitement, the high surf, the "combers," the rush of water up the beach to where we sat watching.

Our only need was for books for the rainy days; those certainly my father supplied. Also there dwelt, up on the north bluff, a very sweet old lady, Mrs. Mather, who had a big house, in one room of which she conducted a little lending library. Later we were to be her neighbors and came to know her family and grandchildren.

Of course the summer was not complete without the wandering organ grinder, with attendant monkey. And I particularly remember my pleasure when I heard a voice calling, "Honey, honey in the comb." And around the corner came the honey man pushing a cart, one section filled with strained honey, the other with the comb.

There were always the wandering Syrians with silks, or rugs, and little baskets of sweet grass for your sewing, or handkerchiefs.

There are so many 'Sconset people from those early days one should recall. Jim Coffin I have mentioned. There was Ed too, his brother, with whom we often rode. One of the people I remember with affection and respect was Henry Coffin whose big farm with grazing sheep stretched away westward from back of the Golf Links. He came to us with vegetables in his farm wagon; he was one of the quiet, pleasant people one was glad to see.

I recall that as a little girl I was allowed to bicycle out to Mr. Coffin's home for sweet peas which he grew in his garden. (Why does no one grow those wonderful flowers now?) I loved them and so did my mother and, if I am right, I recall being allowed to pick the flowers, then take the bunch to Mr .Coffin for a reckoning.

Once after I had been absent some time from the island, indeed it was after my parents were gone, Mr. Coffin's farm wagon stopped at our entrance on the lane and I hurried out to greet him. "I am glad to see someone from this family back again," he said in his quiet way. It surprised and touched me.

Coffins, Pitmans, Folgers, Morrises, their grandsons and nephews and cousins became our friends and helpers.

George Rogers in our first early years was one of the most important people in the village. He lived in a cottage on the Main Road, not far from the present Post Office, with his wife and two sons, who have become mainstays of the village life as was their father. George was very short and fair-haired—and he could mend anything! His back yard was littered with mechanical problems, as well as his workroom; in our childhood, of course, there were many bicycles. Truth to tell he was often behind in work, and when one went for one's bicycle, inquiry was met with "I've been so busy, I haven't gotten to it yet." He also took care of summer houses in winter, closed and opened them for the owners, an important function in the life of that day—and today. When my father bought the house on the bluff for us, George was our caretaker. He was a loyal and sympathetic friend, and I remember with gratitude his help in the house on the day of my father's death in October, 1916.

But as I think back on those long summers, I savor in memory the sense of peace, of fresh sweet air—of growing things, sun drenched, giving off subtle odors— bay, sweet fern; of the masses of wild roses; and with all the visual loveliness was always the rhythmic sound of the surf.

"Sound and sweet airs,—that give delight and hurt not."

In the deep stillness of the night that sea sound carried one on it and sometimes one might sense a different tone, as the tide along the shore changed.

The nights were beautiful—there was space to stand and look up at the heavens, the brilliant stars—and no street lights glared into your eyes, or contended with the light of the sky.

On little journeys from house to house at night, or to the weekly dance at the Casino, one carried a little lantern to light the way. Some of these were oil lanterns. A simpler affair was a candle in the glass shade. Such lanterns were part of household equipment. So also was the yellow oil skin coat and oil skin hat, essential in bad storms.

In those years just before World War I the village of 'Sconset was more socially active. There were tennis matches with Town—for the casino courts were popular. And there were good players from the Yacht Club in Town and we thought dazzling players among our young men. Snap shots show many of my friends in neat white skirts to the ankle and sailor blouses. Sunbonnets were fashionable for girls at that time and turn up in old photographs.

It was in those pre-war years that a 'Sconset institution was founded. Miss Agnes Everett, a singer and actress, a love-able woman and great favorite, was inspired to take two ancient little houses, across the road from the Casino, attach them, decorate them, and open what in those days was called a "tea room." She called it The Chanticleer.

I do not recall that at first anything elaborate in the way of food was attempted. Tea was served, and let me advise you that ladies and gentlemen and boys and girls in those far off days really drank tea, particularly if accompanied by delightful sandwiches and cakes. Probably Agnes served light lunches. But the important point is The Chanticleer was a success and continued to be so. One thing Agnes introduced was the ice cream cone. I have a clear memory of going there on a fine summer morning with my brother Tom and buying cones which we ate strolling along toward Pump Square. I guess this to be about 1908, for I have read a letter of that same brother in his first year at Yale, describing his first experience with that now so common and publicly absorbed delicacy.

Of course the "Chanti" was handy to run over to from the Casino porch at an evening dance. And it soon became an institution.
So the years rolled peacefully on—or so they seem in retrospect—until 1914.

We were still the happy, faraway land; still we barred the automobile. Still we read by lamp light in 'Sconset though certainly there were electric plants in a few homes and households in Town had gas; hotels electricity.

It was difficult to recall 'Sconset in those years between 1914 and 1917. One's memory focuses on the agitation in the cities, Washington, the War. But in October of 1916 my father died in our summer home in 'Sconset. In May 1917 my brother Tom enlisted and was soon in camp in Texas near San Antonio.

Such changes in families were the experience of the War.

The little yellow train that had served Nantucket so well was no more. There was a rumor the "rolling stock" had been sent to France. Difficult experiments in transportation had been made, none very successful. In 1917 a petition was circulated among property holders, to drop the ban on the automobile. It was argued that the townspeople were suffering hardships; it was difficult to get patients from 'Sconset to the hospital in Town, at times.

So — Pandora's box was opened.

When, after the war, we began to come back to the island, we found the cottages creeping up the north bluff toward the light. Houses were springing up on the west side of our lane—Baxter Road. Houses were appearing on the rising land at the back of the village.

And while the cars were now common, they were not as yet the inflictions they are today. But to my dismay I found that the Town Fathers had allowed Broadway in 'Sconset to be the main road north for incoming vehicles. So farewell grassy walks and peaceful little streets. And the sightseeing busses were plying their trade and romanticizing parts of the innocent village as the "Actors Colony."

What a pity! If they had looked ahead they might have planned a main entrance through a road constructed back of the village to connect with Atlantic Avenue. The ancient village of 'Sconset with the rare examples of architecture might have been saved for walkers and lovers of the antique. But few communities in our country have had the foresight to prevent desolating changes wrought by the increasing power of the gas engine!

One afternoon I was loafing alone on the verandah of our house when Margaret Fawcett raced up the path to the steps calling "Alice, Alice come look—bulldozers are tearing down all the brush on our Sunset Hill—they are rolling up the moors—how can we stop them?"

It was true. There they were. It was the beginning of preparation for the new golf links. There was no stopping this change.
Soon a handsome big club house crowned the highest hill—across from Sankaty Light—and the 18 hole course spread away along the Polpis Road. It was soon popular with Nantucket golfers as well as 'Sconseters.

But it seemed to me from that time on the rush to build on the north bluff increased. Houses appeared on Baxter Lane. Front lots were bought and filled, the open field disappeared.

The casual informality of life was disappearing too. With the car came more contact with Town. The little old meat market of Mr. Burgess had long since gone. Shops increased in Town and so, shopping there by 'Sconseters. A few Town shops did deliver in 'Sconset. Electricity appeared in some of the 'Sconset houses.

Social life was more organized; "events" at the Casino, or the golf club claimed more attention. Afternoon teas and evening bridge parties, and big private dances at the Casino assumed importance in those post-war years.

There was one event of national significance that seemed to me to have more impact on 'Sconset life, than perhaps the introduction of the automobile: Prohibition. While I have no clear recollection of much drinking before World War I, it seemed to me that defiance of the foolish law during and after the war became the fashion. The cocktail assumed importance. Friends from Pennsylvania were popular because they could get "Apple-Jack"—which, if gin was not available made a good drink. The afternoon cocktail party began to take over as the preferred form of entertainment. And as night follows day, the hip pocket flask and the reckless driver appeared as inevitable phenomena.

In that period during and following World War I the character of life on the whole island changed. There were more people, more houses. In 'Sconset there was first one new hotel, The Beach House, then another, the Moby Dick. The old Ocean View had closed and been remodeled as a home. Much of the old easy, casual life had gone.

There is no doubt that the discovery of 'Sconset's charms by actors and the settlement among us of several members of that profession had enriched local life in many ways. Their presence had attracted the affiliated arts, writers, critics, musicians. For a short term of years in the twenties a focus of these interests was the Tavern on the Moors, conducted by Fred Howe.

Mr. Howe was a liberal, with acquaintances among writers, lecturers, "intellectuals" and people of the artistic world. He took over a large barn, the property of Charles Pitman, on sloping land toward the west side of 'Sconset, near the moors; at least they were within sight! On the first floor he created a restaurant of sorts. The second he made into a hall where meetings were held, lectures given. Living arrangements were provided nearby.

The institution was a success of sorts and did undoubtedly attract writers and speakers and enlivened the local scene considerably. I have among letters from my brother Tom two written to Ernest Boyd, a New York critic and writer. In one, my brother invites Mr. Boyd to be his guest at the Tavern as the family was that summer temporarily housed in a very small, uncomfortable cottage. In a second very amusing letter to Boyd, after the latter's visit, my brother, Tom, mentions some of the special visitors to the Tavern.

Of course by the period of the 20's travel to the Island was easier. The New York,New Haven and Hartford in summer ran a daily special—the Cape Codder, with cars that were switched off at Providence for Woods Hole. One left the Grand Central Terminal at 42nd Street in New York at 9:30 in the morning and at Woods Hole caught the afternoon boat. Also there was the night Cape Codder on weekends—the midnight to Boston with cars that switched off at Providence for Woods Hole; so you caught a morning boat to the Island.

People going in early spring to the Island, before these summer schedules, took the Owl to Boston, breakfasted in South Station, and boarded a comfortable morning train which ambled down the Cape to Woods Hole.

Really, travel in the pre-aeroplane period was more comfortable!

'Sconset in the twenties.

Let these remembrances stop there; before the airfield was established at Nobadeer, before the sound of practice guns from the Cape, before the onrush of the War to Save—what was it we were to save that time? Or end?

'Sconset in the twenties still had some of the happy, casual, peaceful air of the '90s—if one stayed close to shore; the water, the sea, was still there, clean and sparkling, the air still fresh and salty. 'Sconset of the twenties still offered us stretches of moors untouched by wheels of cars—and Henry Coffin's sheep still grazed.

Indeed in Nantucket of the twenties it was still possible to drive to an empty, clear stretch on many sections of beach along the south shore—without encountering a human soul, and dressing carefully in the shelter of brush or your vehicle, to swim in surf, and sun on clean sands— without the benefit of lifeguards.

In 'Sconset of the twenties one walked out of the house, without locking door or window.

In 'Sconset of the twenties, at least on the north bluff, nights were peaceful, the surf still murmured.

And in September the air was rich with the scents so loved—the bay, fern, the wild pepper—and on many a trellis or porch hung the white trailing vines of clematis, whose scent evokes a time, a place, a peace now vanished.