W 'E GO A-FISH1NG. 123 



coast, which is here splendidly wooded with 

 scrub oak and is dotted at long intervals with 

 the summer-houses of people who care less for 

 society than for nature. We were sailing within 

 half a mile of the island. Back of us Patchogue 

 was lost in the mist. The breeze grew fresher 

 and fresher. The waves began to rise, and it 

 was as lively sailing as any one could want when 

 we reached the little fleet of fishing-boats lying 

 on the cinder beds and cast out our anchor. 

 We were late for the right tide, but as the 

 crews of the other boats reported the fishing to 

 be fair, we decided to try it. With such a 

 breeze it would be less than a two hours' sail 

 home, and it was not yet two o'clock. We 

 should have time for an hour's fishing, for half 

 an hour's run on shore in order to rest the 

 children, and then we could make sail for home 

 with a fresh wind at our stern for a ten miles' 

 run. 



The routine of our bluefishing I have de- 

 scribed elsewhere. Fish are a secondary con- 

 sideration. If we catch any, well and good ; if 

 not, we have had a pretext for sailing thirty 

 miles and idling away the day in the most 

 profitable way imaginable. " L'Art de ne Rien 



