Does Chincoteague as then produce These rugged ponies, lean and spruce? Are these the steers of Accomac That do the negro's drone obey? The things of childhood all come back: The wonder tales of mother day! The jail, the inn, the ivy vines That yon old English churchside cloak, Wherein we read the stately lines Of Addison, writ in his signs, Above the dead of Pocomoke. The world in this old nook may peep, And think it listless and asleep; But I have seen the world enough To think its grandeur something dull. And here were men of sterling stuff, In their own era wonderful: Young Luther Martin's wayward race, And William Winder's core of oak, The lion heart of Samuel Chase, And great Decatur's royal face, And Henry Wise of Pocomoke. When we have raged our little part, And weary out of strife and art, Oh! could we bring to these still shores The peace they have who harbor here, And rest upon our echoing oars, And float adown this tranquil sphere, Then might yon stars shine down on me, With all the hope those lovers spoke, Who walked these tranquil streets I see And thought God's love nowhere so free Nor life so good as Pocomoke. TALES AND IDYLS. KING OF CHINCOTEAGUE HAUNTED PUNGY TICKING STONE THE IMP IN NANJEMOY FALL OF UTIE LEGEND OF FUNKSTOWN JUDGE WHALEY'S DEMON A CONVENT LEGEND CRUTCH, THE PAGE HERMAN OF BOHEMIA MANOR KIDNAPPED THE JUDGE'S LAST TUNE DOMINION OVER THE FISH THE CIRCUIT PREACHER THE BIG IDIOT A BAYSIDE IDYL SIR WILLIAM JOHNSON'S NIGHT PHANTOM ARCHITECT THE LOBBY BROTHER POTOMAC RIVER TELL-TALE FEET UPPER MARLB'RO' PREACHERS' SONS IN 1849 CHESTER RIVER OLD WASHINGTON ALMSHOUSE OLD ST. MARY'S KING OF CHINCOTEAGUE. The night before Christmas, frosty moonlight, the outcast preacher came down to the island shore and raised his hands to the stars. "O God! whose word I so long preached in meekness and sincerity," he cried, "have mercy on my child and its mother, who are poor as were Thine own this morning, eighteen hundred and forty years ago!" The moonlight scarcely fretted the soft expanse of Chincoteague Bay. There seemed a slender hand of silver reaching down from the sky to tremble on the long chords of the water, lying there in light and shade, like a harp. The drowsy dash of the low surf on the bar beyond the inlet was harsh to this still and shallow haven for wreckers and oystermen. It was very far from any busy city or hive of men, between the ocean and the sandy peninsula of Maryland.