Complete Prose Works of Walt Whitman | Page 7

scenes, the ice, drawing the hand-sled,
cutting holes, spearing the eels, &c., were of course just such fun as is dearest to boyhood.
The shores of this bay, winter and summer, and my doings there in early life, are woven
all through L. of G. One sport I was very fond of was to go on a bay-party in summer to
gather sea-gull's eggs. (The gulls lay two or three eggs, more than half the size of hen's

eggs, right on the sand, and leave the sun's heat to hatch them.)
The eastern end of Long Island, the Peconic bay region, I knew quite well too--sail'd
more than once around Shelter island, and down to Montauk--spent many an hour on
Turtle hill by the old light-house, on the extreme point, looking out over the ceaseless roll
of the Atlantic. I used to like to go down there and fraternize with the blue-fishers, or the
annual squads of sea-bass takers. Sometimes, along Montauk peninsula, (it is some 15
miles long, and good grazing,) met the strange, unkempt, half-barbarous herdsmen, at
that time living there entirely aloof from society or civilization, in charge, on those rich
pasturages, of vast droves of horses, kine or sheep, own'd by farmers of the eastern towns.
Sometimes, too, the few remaining Indians, or half-breeds, at that period left on Montauk
peninsula, but now I believe altogether extinct.
More in the middle of the island were the spreading Hempstead plains, then (1830-'40)
quite prairie-like, open, uninhabited, rather sterile, cover'd with kill-calf and huckleberry
bushes, yet plenty of fair pasture for the cattle, mostly milch-cows, who fed there by
hundreds, even thousands, and at evening, (the plains too were own'd by the towns, and
this was the use of them in common,) might be seen taking their way home, branching off
regularly in the right places. I have often been out on the edges of these plains toward
sundown, and can yet recall in fancy the interminable cow-processions, and hear the
music of the tin or copper bells clanking far or near, and breathe the cool of the sweet and
slightly aromatic evening air, and note the sunset.
Through the same region of the island, but further east, extended wide central tracts of
pine and scrub-oak, (charcoal was largely made here,) monotonous and sterile. But many
a good day or half-day did I have, wandering through those solitary crossroads, inhaling
the peculiar and wild aroma. Here, and all along the island and its shores, I spent intervals
many years, all seasons, sometimes riding, sometimes boating, but generally afoot, (I was
always then a good walker,) absorbing fields, shores, marine incidents, characters, the
bay-men, farmers, pilots-always had a plentiful acquaintance with the latter, and with
fishermen--went every summer on sailing trips--always liked the bare sea-beach, south
side, and have some of my happiest hours on it to this day.
As I write, the whole experience comes back to me after the lapse of forty and more
years--the soothing rustle of the waves, and the saline smell--boyhood's times, the
clam-digging, bare-foot, and with trowsers roll'd up--hauling down the creek--the
perfume of the sedge-meadows--the hay-boat, and the chowder and fishing
excursions;--or, of later years, little voyages down and out New York bay, in the pilot
boats. Those same later years, also, while living in Brooklyn, (1836-'50) I went regularly
every week in the mild seasons down to Coney Island, at that time a long, bare
unfrequented shore, which I had all to myself, and where I loved, after bathing, to race up
and down the hard sand, and declaim Homer or Shakspere to the surf and sea gulls by the
hour. But I am getting ahead too rapidly, and must keep more in my traces.

Note:

[3] "Paumanok, (or Paumanake, or Paumanack, the Indian name of Long Island,) over a
hundred miles long; shaped like a fish--plenty of sea shore, sandy, stormy, uninviting, the
horizon boundless, the air too strong for invalids, the bays a wonderful resort for aquatic
birds, the south-side meadows cover'd with salt hay, the soil of the island generally tough,
but good for the locust-tree, the apple orchard, and the blackberry, and with numberless
springs of the sweetest water in the world. Years ago, among the bay-men--a strong, wild
race, now extinct, or rather entirely changed--a native of Long Island was called a
Paumanacker, or Creole-'Paumanacker."--John Burroughs.
MY FIRST READING--LAFAYETTE
From 1824 to '28 our family lived in Brooklyn in Front, Cranberry and Johnson streets. In
the latter my father built a nice house for a home, and afterwards another in Tillary street.
We occupied them, one after the other, but they were mortgaged, and we lost them. I yet
remember Lafayette's visit.[4] Most of these years I went to the public schools. It must
have been about