45° 



Striped Bass. 



There is a mysterious influence at work in these regions which 

 seems to gather the sea-fogs and hold them suspended around the 

 islands, shutting them in completely, while all about, the atmosphere 

 is clear. As we approach the land we observe this phenomenon, and 

 are soon lost in its dense vapors. We steam along slowly, our fog- 

 whistle shrieking at intervals, and every eye strained forward for 

 rocks or vessels which may be in the way, until presently we hear a 

 distant fog-horn answering us, and following it we find ourselves 

 among a fleet of sword-fishermen anchored for the night in Cutty- 

 hunk Bay. There is more music by the steam-whistle with an 



GOSNOLD'S ISLAND, CUTTYHUNK. 



answering shout from the shore, and in a few moments the stroke of 

 oars is heard upon the water. A skiff gropes its way toward us 

 through the fog, we gather our baggage together, and are landed on 

 the shingly beach, where, after a short walk, we find ourselves safe 

 under the comfortable roof of the club-house. 



As the tide does not serve until late, we breakfast at the usual 

 hour, and, having tested our line and seen that everything is in order, 

 with a good supply of spare hooks, we start for a brisk walk over the 

 hills, preceded by Perry, our "chummer," bearing a basket full of 

 lobsters and menhaden for bait. 



Bleak and uninteresting as these hills appear when seen from the 

 water, every now and then we come unexpectedly on some little gem 

 of picturesque beauty, which is none the less charming from the 

 exceeding plainness of its setting. We hear, too, the abrupt notes 



