At one time or another, nearly everyone has dreamed of finding lost treasure. In the mountains of Arizona, modern prospectors search for the gold of the Lost Dutchman; along the coast of Florida, sea divers rake the ocean floor seeking relics spilled from ancient ship wrecks. On Civil War battlefields, soldiers of fortune use metal detectors to search for antiquated belt buckles, buttons and spent ammunition. On Smith Island, youngsters, and even some oldsters, cross the gut to Kizzie's to look for Marmaduke Mister's buried treasure.

Marmaduke's treasure is shrouded in mystery. There are tales of ghostly fog and mist, of wailing banshees and of folks who have found the treasure, only to lose it again as it slipped back into the marshy soil of Kizzie's.

But not all of Smith Island's treasure is shrouded in mystery, and not all of it is lost. In our family Bibles, in old photograph albums, at the back of a closet shelf or up in our attics, there is treasure just waiting to be found. The treasure we find in these places is our link with the past, bits and pieces of our history.

Recently, some of those bits and pieces, a veritable treasure trove, were found in an old trunk that was hidden away under the eaves of Granddaddie's attic. These bits and pieces tell stories of days gone by. The papers are dog-eared and brittle, darkened by time, but they are relics of the past, and they tell the tale of what life was like for a Smith Island waterman and his family at the turn of the century.

For instance, back in 1904, a license to catch oysters by dredge cost all of four dollars per season. But that must have seemed like a small fortune to a man who was getting only thirty-two cents for a bushel of oysters. Oysters must have been plentiful, though, for a receipt for the same date shows that his Bugeye unloaded almost seven hundred bushels. The men the captain hired signed on for fifteen dollars a month, their contracts say, but after paying for their boots, oilskins and gloves, they were lucky to receive a fraction of their wages.

The shippies ate well, though. When yeast was a nickel a cake and a barrel of flour was four bucks, there must have been plenty of freshly baked bread to go along with their meat and potatoes and beans. There was sugar for their coffee, too, and their captain provided them with an after-dinner smoke, the cost of which he carefully recorded in his book of payroll deductions.

The captain kept careful records, and these records relate the signs of the times. One receipt from an oil company proclaims in capital letters that it has positively no connection with any trust or combine, but it also states that "prices are subject to change without notice." Other invoices speak of the rise and decline of one industry and the beginnings of another, as well as the modernizing of the tools of the waterman's trade. Still others speak of Crisfield's prosperity, and a ragged, well-worn newspaper article declares that "there are now more than twice as many saloons as churches," and cites this fact as one of the prime causes for the spread of crime.

The saloons, of course, were in Baltimore. Numerous receipts found in the trunk tell the story of thriving business along that city's waterfront. Ship chandlers, smithies, sail makers and manufacturers of Windlass, Winders, Dredges and Wheels did a brisk trade. Most of those companies that were situated along Baltimore's Long Dock no longer exist, but the lists of fees and charges, of accounts paid or owing, chronicle the lives of long-ago mariners and the people who helped them make a living.

From Baltimore to Fairbanks, Virginia, from the Potomac to Smith Island, from Smith Island to Tangier, old documents continue to tell their stories. There are letters from a young girl who sailed away with her father, fell in love with the captain of a schooner and married him. But there are also letters from a mother who despaired of such a marriage. In her own letters, she begs her daughter to come back home and keep the family together by choosing a husband from Island suitors.

In letters passed back and forth across the few miles that separate Smith Island from Tangier, sisters write to each other about births and sickness and death. They tell of young men gone off to war, of hard times and of grief. But they also speak of joy a new baby, an addition built on the house, plenty of wood stacked up for the winter, and the hope that, "Next week, if the weather is good, Severn will bring me up for a visit."

In that old trunk there are tales of tug boats and harbor masters, of a twelve-year-old boy who paid a dollar for his first crabbing license, receipts for coal bought and sold by old Aaron Bradshaw. There are tax bills, pages torn from nineteenth century calendars, an ancient summons to court, and much, much more. All of these bits and pieces of treasure are fragments of island history that will be preserved for future generations.

Although our dreams of finding buried treasure may never be realized, and Marmaduke's treasure may be lost forever, the people of Smith Island have a heritage that is far richer than silver or gold. Untold riches lie nearby, just waiting to be found. The apron that Grandma used to wear, a tin box that once held Allan's Royal Face Powder, a lacy mitt, a silken sash and the documents that tell about by-gone days. These are all treasure, a part of island heritage. They are our links with the past.