Striped Bass. 



463 



scrubby alders — the lurking-place of many a large trout, if 

 we may believe our young guide. The trout should be full of 

 game and fine-flavored in these streams — pink-fleshed, vigorous 

 fellows, such as we find in the tide-water creeks of Long Island 



THE LIGHT-HOUSE AT GAY HEAD. 



and Cape Cod, who take the fly with a rush that sends the heart 

 jumping into the throat. 



As we approach Menemsha Bight, the roads are heavy with re- 

 cent rains, and the wheels sink deep in the sandy soil. A queer little 

 popping sound, apparently coming from under the wagon, excites 

 our curiosity ; we lean over to ascertain the cause, and find the 

 ground covered with myriads of small toads, any one of which could 

 sit comfortably on a dime with room to spare. Some of these, get- 

 ting caught in the deep rut of the road, struggle feebly to leap over 

 the barrier, and failing in the attempt, the wheels pass over them, 

 each one exploding under the weight with a faint pop, and flat- 

 tening out into a grotesque exaggeration of his former self, that 

 reminds us of one of the pantomime tricks of the Ravel family. 



It is dark when we reach Gay Head, and as we drive up to the door 

 of the keeper's house, which adjoins the light-house, a voice from some 

 unknown region cheerily invites us to enter. We look around for 

 the owner, but see no one to whom the voice could belong. Over- 

 head, long, slanting bars of white-and-red light flash through the 

 powerful Fresnel lenses in every direction, looking like bands of 

 bright ribbon, cut bias against the darkness of the sky beyond, while 



