THE GIRL'S DAY 



"The Gulf is smooth as a mill pond. Let's go 

 up that way." 



We paddled out of the pass and turned up the 

 coast, keeping a stone's throw outside the slight 

 surf where the smooth waves rolled up the wide 

 beach. The azure sky was cloudless, the sun 

 sent vertical rays from the zenith, from which 

 our broad-brimmed hats shaded us, the slowly 

 undulating, mirror-like surface of the water half- 

 hypnotized as it lifted and lowered us, and the 

 dip of our paddles grew slower until a laugh 

 from the Girl aroused us. She had been hum- 

 ming the Canadian Boat Song, to the measure 

 of which we had listened by the hour in waters 

 two thousand miles away. Our strokes kept 

 time with the murmured music which slowly 

 slackened until, when the laugh of the Girl 

 awakened us, we were barely moving through 

 the water. 



As I quickened my stroke a four-pound fish 

 leaping over the bow of the canoe struck the 

 handle of my paddle and fell at my knees. 



"What kind of fish is that and what made it 

 jump into the canoe?" exclaimed the Girl. 



"It is a pompano, the finest food fish in the 

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