As a friend of mine, who is the teacher of modern languages and calisthenics in an educational institution, once said, "the air seems filled with that delicious dolce farina for which those regions is noted for." I use his language because I do not know now how I could add to it in any way. We visited Mr. James Bunn at his home on Huckleberry avenue, saw the City Hall and Custom House and obtained a front view of it, secured a picture of the residence of the Street Commissioner and then I talked with Mr. Bunn while the artist got a marine view of his face. Mr. Bunn was for forty years a whaler, but had abandoned the habit now, as there is so little demand among the restaurants for whales, and also because there are fewer whales. I ascertained from him that the whale at this season of the year does not readily rise to the fly, but bites the harpoon greedily during the middle of the day. Mr. Bunn also gave us a great deal of other Information, among other things informing us of the fact that the white men had been up to their old tricks and were trying to steal portions of the reservation that had not been nailed down. He did not say whether it was the same man who is trying to steal the old Southampton graveyard or not. James is about seventy-five years old and his father once lived in a wigwam on the Shinnecock Hills. Mr. Bunn says that the country has changed very much in the past 250 years and that I would hardly know the place if I could have seen it at first. During that time he says two other houses have been built and he has reshingled the L of his barn with hay. He told us the thrilling story of the Spanish Sylph and how she was wrecked many years ago on the coast near his house, and how the Spanish dollars burst out of her gaping side and fell with a low, mellow plunk into the raging main. How and then the sea has given up one of these "sand-dollars" as the years went by, and not over two years ago one was found along the shore near by. What I blame the Shinnecock Indians for is their fatal yearning to subsist solely on this precarious income. But with the decline of the whaling industry, due somewhat to the great popularity of natural and acquired gas as a lubricant, together with the cheap methods of picking up electricity and preserving it for illuminating purposes, and also to the fact that whales are more skittish than they used to be, the Shinnecock whaler is left high and dry. It is, indeed, a pathetic picture. Here on the stern and rock-bound coast, where their ancestors greeted Columbus and other excursionists as they landed on the new dock and at once had their pictures taken in a group for the illustration on the greenbacks, now the surviving relic of a brave people, with bowed heads and frosting locks, are waiting a few days only for the long, dark night of merciful oblivion.