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Updated: May 24, 2025
There he would throw himself at full length on the summit of the bluff, with the surf in his ears and the cool, salt breeze on his face, and watch the sun flashing from the brown glass toggles near the white lobster-buoys; or, lifting his gaze to the horizon beyond the purple deep, he would trace the low, rolling humps of the mainland hills, the cleft range of Isle au Haut, or the heights of Mount Desert.
But nothing was to be gained by yielding to discouragement. He reviewed his scanty stock of sea lore. "That wind is probably blowing from some point between northeast and southeast. If we turn around, and run straight before it, we'll be likely to hit the island." He swung the pea-pod stern to the breeze. "Here goes! Watch out sharp for lobster-buoys, Filippo!" But no buoys appeared.
Each was eighteen inches long, five inches square at one end, and tapered almost to a point at the other, near which a hole was bored; they were painted white, encircled by a single green stripe, and bore the brand "SP." "Cedar lobster-buoys," said Jim. "SP's my Uncle Tom's brand. Every man has a different kind, so his floats won't get mixed with anybody else's.
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