Little islands dot the coast of Maine everywhere, some with only a tree or two on them and others with a hundred or more. They're wild little islands without names, and no one lives on them. You could row to them if you wanted to for a picnic, but no one really does. They remain as wild as they were before the first European settlers came here. The Good Folk of the wood tell me that long ago giants roamed this land, and their children used to play a game of hopping from one island to the next. What a great ruckus it made, especially when they lost their balance! If you look closely, you can still see their giant footprints, now long overgrown with moss. But sometimes in the fog that we are almost perpetually surrounded by, I hear a boom-booming and a spash-splashing and peals of odd laughter. I'm told by the locals that it's merely the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the lobster boats going to and fro and the drifting echo of ship bells. I haven't the heart to tell them the truth.