Noank is a little played-out fishing town on the southeastern coast of Connecticut, lying half-way between New London and Stonington. Once it was a profitable port for mackerel and cod fishing. Today its wharves are deserted of all save a few lobster smacks. There is a shipyard, employing three hundred and fifty men, a yacht-building establishment, with two or three hired hands; a sail-loft, and some dozen or so shops or sheds, where the odds and ends of fishing life are made and sold. Everything is peaceful. The sound of the shipyard axes and hammers can be heard for miles over the quiet waters of the bay. In the sunny lane which follows the line of the shore, and along which a few shops struggle in happy-go-lucky disorder, may be heard the voices and noises of the workers at their work. Water gurgling about the stanchions of the docks, the whistle of some fisherman as he dawdles over his nets, or puts his fish ashore, the whirr of the single high-power sewing machine in the sail-loft, often mingle in a pleasant harmony, and invite the mind to repose and speculation. I was in a most examining and critical mood that summer, looking into the nature and significance of many things, and was sitting one day in the shed of the maker of sailboats, where a half-dozen characters of the village were gathered, when some turn in the conversation brought up the nature of man. He is queer, he is restless; life is not so very much when you come to look upon many phases of it. "Did any of you ever know a contented man?" I inquired idly, merely for the sake of something to say. There was silence for a moment, and one after another met my roving glance with a thoughtful, self-involved and retrospective eye. Old Mr. Main was the first to answer. "Yes, I did. One." "So did I," put in the sailboat maker, as he stopped in his work to think about it. "Yes, and I did," said a dark, squat, sunny, little old fisherman, who sold cunners for bait in a little hut next door. "Maybe you and me are thinking of the same one, Jacob," said old Mr. Main, looking inquisitively at the boat-builder. "I think we've all got the same man in mind, likely," returned the builder. "Who is he?" I asked. "Charlie Potter," said the builder. "That's the man!" exclaimed Mr. Main. "Yes, I reckon Charlie Potter is contented, if anybody be," said an old fisherman who had hitherto been silent. Such unanimity of opinion struck me forcibly. Charlie Potter--what a humble name; not very remarkable, to say the least. And to hear him so spoken of in this restless, religious, quibbling community made it all the more interesting. "So you really think he is contented, do you?" I asked. "Yes, sir! Charlie Potter is a contented man," replied Mr. Main, with convincing emphasis. "Well," I returned, "that's rather interesting. What sort of a man is he?" "Oh, he's just an ordinary man, not much of anybody. Fishes and builds boats occasionally," put in the boat-builder.