TALES OF FISHES 



its beauty. At a distance the bay and the grove 

 of eucalyptus-trees, the green-and-gold slopes, look 

 as they always looked. Avalon has a singular charm 

 outside of its sport of fishing. It is the most delight- 

 ful and comfortable place I ever visited. The nights 

 are cool. You sleep under blankets even when over 

 in Los Angeles people are suffocating with the heat. 

 At dawn the hills are obscured in fog and sometimes 

 this fog is chilly. But early or late in the morning 

 it breaks up and rolls away. The sun shines. It is 

 the kind of sunshine that dazzles the eye, elevates the 

 spirit, and warms the back. And out there rolls the 

 vast blue Pacific — calm, slowly heaving, beautiful, 

 and mysterious. 



During the summer months Avalon is gay, color- 

 ful, happy, and mirthful with its crowds of tourists 

 and summer visitors. The one broad street runs 

 along the beach and I venture to say no other street 

 in America can compare with it for lazy, idle, com- 

 fortable, pleasant, and pictiu-esque effects. It is 

 difficult to determine just where the beach begins 

 and the street ends, because of the strollers in bath- 

 ing-suits. Many a time, after a long fishing-day 

 on the water, as I was walking up the middle of the 

 street, I have been stunned to a gasp by the startling 

 apparition of Venus or Hebe or Little Egypt or 

 Annette Kellermann parading nonchalantly to and 

 fro. It seems reasonable and fair to give notice 

 that broadbill swordfish are not the only dangers to 

 encounter at Avalon. I wish they had a policeman 

 there. 



But the spirit of Avalon, like the climate, is some- 

 thing to love. It is free, careless, mirthful, whole- 



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