It was there, just without the shadow of the pine, that the hole was scooped in the ground, and lined with great stones. Indeed, this was already done; for had I not had a clambake there? And, that I might not forget it--there was little danger of my forgetting--and, too, that I might have other clambakes, I had left the hole as it was, and the great stones. And on these stones I kindled a fire that roared high; and when it had burned long and the stones were hot I raked the ashes off. And Old Goodwin helped me, and he whistled as he worked. He was no artist at the whistling, but yet it gave me pleasure to see him so well pleased, so that I must needs join him in his whistling; and I am no artist at it, either. But we were merry at our whistling, and we made so great a racket with it that any one would have thought to hear us, there was a flock of strange birds and it was springtime; instead of which it was fall and the birds had left, except some robins and some sparrows and the meadow-larks. And even they were silent. And the terns had gone, too,--that always marks the change of season, for me,--and the winter gulls had come to take their place. And when, at last, we had the embers all raked off and the stones clean, Old Goodwin leaned upon his rake and wiped his forehead. It was hot there, so near the hot stones, and the fire just burned out. And he began to laugh, for sheer pleasure and for the merriment that he might hold in no longer; and, laughing, he could whistle no more. “Adam,” he said, “do you know what it is that you are whistling?” And I stopped long enough to answer. “No,” I said. “It does not matter. Make a glad noise.” And, with that, I began to sing; and I am only worse at singing than I am at whistling. But what cared I? And Old Goodwin, as soon as he could, for his laughter, joined me in singing. And he sang worse than I. But we cared not at all,--our hearts were at ease,--and took our forks and shook down upon the stones fresh seaweed from the pile, and on the seaweed laid the clams that I had digged that morning. Then, more seaweed; and the other things, according to their season, orderly, in layers: the lobsters, and the fish, fresh caught, and the chicken, not too fresh, and sweet potatoes and white, and the last of my corn that had survived the storm. I had a fear that the ears might not be well filled--but it was fresh and tender. And over all we piled the weed and made a dome that smoked and steamed and filled the air with incense. Then, our work done, we sat there and looked out, and were silent. At last Old Goodwin spoke, and he was looking at the smoking dome. “Adam,” he said, “will there be another clambake after this?” “I fear not,” I answered. “For it gets on toward winter, and it will be too cold. But when summer comes again we may have many, we three.”