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Updated: May 15, 2025
Two hundred years ago it was supposed to occur frequently. It was common belief that the beautiful pickerel weed which borders our Northern lakes, after freezing, went into a sort of protoplasmic slime out of which pickerel were produced. The eelgrass of the river was supposed to yield eels in a similar fashion. The dead bodies of animals were supposed to turn into maggots.
I sculled the skiff straight in to the edge of the flat, at a point where the bank sloped sharply to deep water. I threw over my anchor, shortened the rope and made it fast. Then I stepped out into water above my shoe tops and waded toward the dingy. The water was icy cold, but I did not know it at the time. I splashed through the eelgrass. Victor saw me coming and roared an angry protest.
He stood in the stern of the launch, staring thoughtfully after the Narcissus, and before his mind there floated that vision of the barnacles and eelgrass, infallible evidence that the years had been long since the Narcissus had been hauled out. "Do you know how long that steamer has lain there?" he queried of the launchman.
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