1212 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
I would like to have you out here with 
us today, but perhaps you would rather 
stand on solid ground than to sit here 
bobbing and swaying on the bosom of the 
Atlantic Ocean! For here we ai*e far 
ouside Plymouth Harbor, part way across 
the bay to Cape Cod, with only the roll¬ 
ing and heaving ocean between us and 
Europe. The Hope Farm man and two 
of the boys have run away from the 
sweet corn and apples for a little vacation. 
We spent a day over in old Bristol 
County, north of Taunton, where I 
learned about the sunny side of the barn. 
The old barn isn't there now, but we 
found all the rest of the fixtures—includ¬ 
ing the sun. I shall have to Tell about 
that country and its chances for farming 
later, but here we are now trying to land 
a few codfish. Somehow New Jersey 
with its sweet corn and apples and toma¬ 
toes seems very far away, and for a 
moment the price doesn't concern us. 
***** 
Cherry-top has a bite! No doubt about 
it. There is something on his hook that 
pulls like a young steam engine as he 
hauls in the line hand over hand. lie is 
having all the thrill of hauling in a 20- 
pound cod. and after all the thrill is the 
main thing. Down in the green water 
we see a tremendous fish on the end of 
the line. .It’s a bigger cod than we ex¬ 
pected—until its ugly head appears at 
the side of the boat, and the boy finds he 
has hooked a hideous sculpin. How the 
fishermen do hate these creatures as 
well as dogfish ! They stab them quickly 
and throw them back into the water. 
They are not worth anything even for 
bait, although to a Jersey fruit grower 
turned amateur fisherman they give all 
the sport of fishing except eating the fish. 
At any rate, the sculpin goes overboard 
and the baited hook goes down again. It 
has been a case of “hope deferred” with 
us thus far, but codfishing is not of the 
sort which “maketh the heart sick.” You 
keep at it as long as the bait holds out. 
We started with a good bucket of clams, 
and it seemed as if we could catch fish 
enough to provide codfish balls for several 
years. l'et here is the bait nearly half 
gone and thus far we have landed one 
small cod, two sculpins and one dogfish ! 
***** 
But who cares as we rock in our boat 
off the quaint old Pilgrim town on the 
lazy swell of the ocean? Around us are 
fishermen and lobster catchers. They 
must have fish in order to live, and they 
seem to be getting them. But here we 
are exchanging the price of a few barrels 
of apples and a few hundred ears of corn 
for a sunburn and an appetite. If we 
can throw in a few fish it will be pure 
velvet. When I was a boy in Plymouth 
fishermen did their work with sailboats. 
It was a beautiful sight on a breezy morn¬ 
ing to see the harbor spotted with white 
sails glittering in the sun and Avell filled 
by the wind. When the breeze died away 
it was necessary to get out the oars and 
row—often against the tide. With such 
a breeze as we have today it is doubtful 
if we could even have come out this far. 
When we left the wharf the skipper who 
runs this boat merely started his engine, 
fed in the gas and ran his eye over the 
water. There was a whirl and a splash 
and off we went faster than any gale 
could blow us. Gasoline has taken most 
of the poetry out of deep-water fishing, 
but it has put the business “up-to-date,” 
if that is any substitute for poetry, and 
there was never much poetry about it 
anyway, except for those who stay on 
shore and tell about it. The boat is small 
and we are cramped into a narrow space, 
wet and more or less slimy. The sun 
has broken through the clouds and 
sparkles on the waters with a reflection 
that gets your skin going and coming 
until it peels off in patches. We thought 
a New Jersey cornfield could tan a hide, 
but this double action of sky and water 
tans the human skin into leather. 
***** 
I suppose the water where our boat 
rocks and bobs is over 50 feet deep. The 
cod seem to be about three or four feet 
from the bottom, and our instructions are 
to drop the sinker until it strikes bottom 
and then pull the hook up about four 
feet. We use clams for bait. There is 
a bucket of them close at hand. With 
The RURAL N 
a stout knife the shell is twisted off and 
the clam is hung on the hook so as to 
leave the barb exposed. I notice the 
skipper puts three or four of these clams 
on the hook at one time—in the hope of 
attracting a big, hungry cod. Each line 
has a heavy lead sinker which carries the 
baited hook down into the water. You 
feel it strike bottom, raise it about four 
feet and then wait—pulling up and down 
now and then to make sure that the line 
is clear. Now and then you feel a nibble 
or a jerk, and you pull up your line to 
find, usually, that some big fish has sucked 
off the bait without touching the hook. 
It does seem that the cod in these waters 
have learned to eat clams with a spoon, 
for again and again we pull up our lines 
after a big jerk only to find the bait 
pulled off the hook. Well, as codfish is 
said to be the brain food which made the 
Yankees masterful, why should not the 
cod learn a few tricks about getting his 
dinner -without risking his life? He 
seems to have done so. for our bucket of 
bait is disappearing and there is still only 
one fish worth saving. 
***** 
Over our heads and around the point 
of the Gurnet a great army of gulls are 
flying. Now and then one of them darts 
down with incredible swiftness to snatch 
a small fish out of the water. It is won¬ 
derful how these'sharp-eyed birds sailing 
high in the air can see these tiny fish as 
they come to the top. As the gull floats 
on outstretched wing over the water it 
seems like the most beautiful, gentle erea- 
EW-YORKER 
ture imaginable. Suddenly, at the sight 
of some small fish, it becomes a fierce’ bird 
of prey, and there is something frightful 
in the way its nature changes. Far away 
on the beach we may see with the glass 
little brown objects running about. They 
are sandpipers or “peeps”—fat little shore 
birds, fit for a prince or a hungry fisher¬ 
man when roasted over the fire or made 
into a stew. Long ago when I was a boy 
we used to go limiting these birds when 
the weather was too wet to work on the 
farm. I carried an old army musket all 
day, and we would come home at night 
with a big string of birds. It would cost 
a fortune to do it now, for all these birds, 
including the gulls, are protected by law. 
All these things come to mind as we 
roll and rock on the ocean and the cod¬ 
fish steal our bait. It was right across 
where we are drifting that the Mayflower 
sailed into Plymouth Harbor. I often 
wonder what would have happened to 
American history if the Mayflower had 
not lost her reckoning, or if her people 
had not been so weary of the voyage that 
they were willing to get off anywhere! 
They must have been a tired and sad lot 
of people as they looked over the long 
stretches of frozen sand and snow. For 
while you have only to look at the harbor 
today to realize how Plymouth can smile 
in Summer—just come down here in De¬ 
cember and see how she can frown. The 
poet tells about the “stern and rock-bound 
coast,” and pines that tossed their “giant 
branches.” The coast is stern enough. 
August 10, 1019 
but it is mostly a long stretch of sand. 
A good share of Plymouth County is to¬ 
day just as the Pilgrims found it, and 
most of the pines are rather undersized. 
But while we may discount the poet’s 
description no one can ever discount the 
work which was done by this weary and 
disappointed Mayflower group. You hear 
people talk of their “blue laws.” their 
obstinate bigotry and their narrow view 
of life, but where, in all the history of 
the world, can you find any small event 
like the transfer of 100 people to a new 
home that has so changed the world’s 
history as the sailing of that shaky little 
vessel into this shallow harbor? Beside 
Pilgrim Hall yesterday I saw a car from 
Texas! 
***** 
But dreaming back .300 years to the 
Mayflower is not codfishiug. There comes 
a jerk at my hook and up comes the line, 
hand over hand. Struggling at the hook 
is a young cod, perhaps a foot long. I 
have been fishing seven hours, and this 
is the first cod. As I reach for more bait 
I find the bucket empty. It is a fact that 
we have used up a full bucket of bait 
and have caught four small cod, three 
sculpins and two dogfish. But we have 
had a perfect day, and what an appetite 
we carried back with us! Those cod 
were small in size, but they were great 
when Aunt Lucy fried them in the old- 
fashioned way. Why, I think we could 
eat. a sculpin cooked in like manner. But 
a farmer will say, “I'm not interested in 
fishing; how are the farmers down in that 
country feeling?” The chances' are that 
any farmer would be better off for a day’s 
fishing, and I will try to tell how country 
people are feeling a little later, it. w. c. 
TRADE | MARK 
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V 
