Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 6

ducks and geese, and dazzling white with the graceful swans. The latter sit in great flocks on the shoals, for miles in length. As the steamer approaches, they arise in such vast numbers as to nearly blacken the heavens with a rushing sound like the coming tornado. Arriving as near our destination as the vessel can take us, we disembark, landing on a strong platform built far out from the shore. For a half hour we are busy getting our traps from the bait--guns, dogs, ammunition, boxes, bags, bales, bundles, baskets and barrels. We had left nothing unpurchased which could contribute to the comfort of the inner or outer man--especially the former. Now we transfer everything to a small boat, sent from the beach miles away, to meet and convey us to our journey's end--our home for a few weeks, where we must conform to the customs of the natives as near as possible. We do not reach the Hall until the twilight has faded into darkness. The water is too shallow to allow even this small craft to approach the shore near enough to enable us to land, so carts are driven out to it, and the baggage and provisions piled therein. The teams being loaded, us city folks, with store clothes on, are carried ashore on the backs of our amiable and hospitable friends. They have a contempt for dry places, water being their element. Proceeding to the house, we are welcomed in the warmest possible manner by our host and his ever busy and pleasant daughter Nora. We are installed as a part of the family, for we have been there before--we are not strangers. Nora and her sable assistants had prepared an abundant and inviting meal for us, and we enjoyed it with an appetite quickened by the sail across the Sound.
[Illustration: GOING ASHORE.]
[Illustration: RAYMOND HALL.]
After supper we made our arrangements for the first day's shooting, and then retired--sinking into beds so downy as to induce sleep in a few moments--and we do sleep just as soundly as if we had always been wise and good and happy. The club house, "Raymond Hall," is an ordinary frame one, situated on the shore of the Sound, a few rods from the sea. It is surrounded by a tolerable growth of persimmon and other trees; it stands alone, and at night is as silent as the halls of death--not a sound being heard except the bark of the watchful house-dogs. The wind murmurs about the angles of the house, and through the branches of the trees, in dreary harmony with the roar of the ocean. It is somewhat startling, for a few nights, to us denizens of cities, to notice the entire absence of all precautions against depredators--there are neither locks nor bolts. Life is primitive here; all honor the head of the family, and bow to his will. The people, young and old, are universally kind and respectful to those strangers who sojourn among them, meeting them in a spirit of frankness and exacting the same. We shoot whenever the weather is suitable, and amuse ourselves at other times in various ways--repairing boats, rigging decoys, cleaning guns, loading shell, and making ready for a good day when it does come. We breakfast between eight and nine o'clock, then, donning our shooting attire, including rubber boots, which are indispensable, we go to the landing. Wading out to our boats, laden with all the implements of destruction, we depart for the day's sport. A small fleet of five sail starts in a bunch like a flock of white-winged birds; the swiftest of them shoot ahead, fading out in the distance; others disappear behind the islands or into some of the numerous creeks, and for that day we are lost to each other.
[Illustration: "PHELY."]
We meet again at night, however, and compare notes. The number of birds each has secured, the good and bad shots, with other events of the day, are all pleasant topics at supper. After the evening meal, we plan the next day's business, and then, wearied, we seek our feather beds and sleep too soundly even to dream. So we pass the days in a sort of luxurious vagabondism. How very pleasant it is to be a vagabond, when one may return to starched linen and the trammels of civilization whenever one wishes!
Our club was composed of six persons: Mondray H. Charles, Rory Theodoric, Jas. O'Kelly, Geo. H. Crege, H. H. Josephus and Geo. G. Paullo. Two servants accompanied the party--Steve and Jacob, Steve is a rattling, roaring fellow, who had never before been without the sound of the breakers of his native Long Island, and was ready to perform any act for his friends, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter. Jacob, the companion of Steve, is the very