120 LIBERTY AND A LIVING. 



the boy who goes as sailor gets a percentage of 

 the catch, whether of fish or of oysters. One 

 young fellow who sailed in a Patchogue smack 

 last summer got $600 as the returns of his sum- 

 mer's work. 



To-day, as the morning breeze dies away 

 about ten o'clock, leaving us in the middle of 

 the bay, two miles from land on either side, it 

 seems hard to believe that within a few weeks 

 the oystermen will be blowing on their fingers 

 and swinging their arms, and that the duck- 

 shooters will be ranging this very spot. The 

 water is so warm that it is still full of jelly-fish, 

 which the children catch with a scalp net as we 

 glide slowly along. Half an hour later the 

 breeze dies out entirely, and the boom swings 

 from one side to the other, the sail flapping 

 idly. No amount of whistling brings a breeze. 

 It is hot and still. The buzzing of an occa- 

 sional fly and noises from the distant shore are 

 faintly heard ; the barking of dogs and the 

 hammering of some carpenters are very dis- 

 tinct. As the little air moving comes from the 

 shore, we cannot hear the boom of the surf on 

 the other side of us. The cinder beds, our 

 fishing grounds, are still five miles away. By 



