waters of the bay and making the small craft dance to the merry music of wind and wave. There is a goodly fleet at anchor and a large throng of visitors is seen on the veranda of the club-house, on the green lawn that almost kisses the water's edge, and on the float, which is nearly surrounded by steam and naphtha launches, gigs, dinghies and other tenders. From a look aloft at the fleecy clouds and straggling mares' tails that sail along in the cerulean sky, the breeze shows every sign of freshening as the day grows older; and the inevitable weather prophets, one or two of whom can be found in every yacht's crew, talk sagely of single reefs and coming squalls.
Our yacht is a down-to-date 51-footer, fitted with all modern appliances for the winning of cups, including a fin keel that would scrape the bottom at a depth of more than ten feet, and frightens many a flounder from his feeding grounds. Witch-like she looks, as she tugs at her anchor eager to be off. Everything alow and aloft is taut and trim. Her standing rigging is set up as tight as bars of steel. Not a wrinkle shows in her well-cut mainsail, set just as it ought to be, with no abnormal strains visible in throat, peak or after leech, and not a symptom of bagginess in the whole symmetry of the sail. Above this the huge club-topsail is spread, stretching ambitiously skyward, and this, too, is a choice example of the
