To the west, where now the great stone bridge, costing a quarter of a million, connects the island of Newport the Beautiful with the mainland, was the pleasant ferry. And beyond lay the Narragansett, one of the beautiful inland seas of the world. Here also were the Highlands of the Pocassetts, and thence Queen Wetamoe and her warriors used to cross Mount Hope Bay to unite in the war-dances of King Philip at night. To-day every town on the Heights has its wonderful tales and romantic legends. [Illustration: THE BOAT LANDING AND THE LAKE, FROM THE LIBERAL ARTS BUILDING.] The “husk-heap,” as the unharvested corn was called, was many hundred feet long, and covered on the top with thatch and swale meadow-hay. Behind it rose a number of “husk-stacks,” as the heaped husked cornstalks were termed, while in front were two huge ox-carts, with high sides, which were brimming with yellow Indian corn. Over the corn-heaps where the husking had already been done was a long row of pumpkins, “pig corn” and “smutty corn,” on the ground. The crickets were singing cheerily everywhere, as they always did on bright days about the corn-heaps. The huskers were a merry company. In the middle of the long row of these busy people sat Deacon White, the owner of the seashore farm, and next to him Sally Bannocks, his widowed sister. At his other side sat Parson Brown, who had come over from the parsonage under the great elbowing elm-trees to “lend a hand;” and beside the good Parson sat Miraculous Susan, the woman-of-all-work of the town. An old Indian woman, named Maria, took a place apart from the others at the end of the heap. Miraculous Susan and Indian Maria husked for the Deacon on shares, receiving one bushel in ten of the corn that they basketed for their labor. A dozen or more boys and girls made up a happy party, such as could have been seen in November a hundred years ago on almost any large New England farm. In these merry days of plenty the young people had a droll song that they used to sing. It was evidently written in derision of the unthrifty farmer, who had no such bounteous corn-heaps as these. It was sung in doleful minor, and the refrain words “Over there” had the most melancholy cadence of anything that I ever heard except the hymn-tune “Windham.” It ran as follows:— O potatoes they grow small, Over there. O potatoes they grow small, For they plants ’em in the fall, And they eats ’em skins and all, Over there! O they had a clam pie, Over there. O they had a clam pie, Over there. O they had a clam pie, And its crust was made of rye, You must eat it or must die, Over there!