Nick Babas Last Drink and Other Sketches | Page 6

of Indians which
once owned the adjacent lands. It is quite a large sheet of water, though
not deep, about fifty miles long, and nearly ten at the widest part. It is
dotted with small, low, sedgy islands, marshes and swamps. After
enduring the approaches to it, quite an enlivening scene is presented.
Persons are seen on the shore of the mainland, and boats are moving
about in various directions. Huge groaning windmills, with tattered
sails, guard the shore and torture the Indian corn into bread-stuff. Now
for the first time the traveler begins to realize what it is to see wild fowl.
The water seems black with 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