The Dead Ship Of Harpswell

: Myths And Legends Of Our Own Land

At times the fisher-folk of Maine are startled to see the form of a ship,

with gaunt timbers showing through the planks, like lean limbs through

rents in a pauper's garb, float shoreward in the sunset. She is a ship of

ancient build, with tall masts and sails of majestic spread, all torn;

but what is her name, her port, her flag, what harbor she is trying to

make, no man can tell, for on her deck no sailor has ever been seen to
run up colors or heard to answer a hail. Be it in calm or storm, in-come

or ebb of tide, the ship holds her way until she almost touches shore.

There is no creak of spars or whine of cordage, no spray at the bow, no

ripple at the stern--no voice, and no figure to utter one. As she nears

the rocks she pauses, then, as if impelled by a contrary current, floats

rudder foremost off to sea, and vanishes in twilight. Harpswell is her

favorite cruising-ground, and her appearance there sets many heads to

shaking, for while it is not inevitable that ill luck follows her visits,

it has been seen that burial-boats have sometimes had occasion to cross

the harbor soon after them, and that they were obliged by wind or tide or

current to follow her course on leaving the wharf.