Nantucket Island is not now known 
as a place to delight the heart of the 
veteran fisherman. Two choices alone 
are open to him: he may deliberately 
“go outside,” which means quite a dis¬ 
tance indeed, and do some “real fish¬ 
ing,” or content himself with the in¬ 
numerable fresh-water lakes which dot 
the remote place, from Tuckernuck to 
the last stepping-off, at Siaconset. 
Strange things have happened to 
fishermen and fishing. The born Is¬ 
lander will tell you this. The tides of 
chance have stripped the place clean 
of any pretentious sport with rod and 
reel. It isn’t as it was in the olden 
days. 
But the two chapters with which we 
are now concerned bring out two valu¬ 
able points: 
First, that true sportsmen can find 
sport ANYWHERE, if they know how 
to search for it. (And this is a vitally 
important lesson to learn.) 
Secondly, that old Nantucket is by 
no means barren of the thrills of 
angling. It is an accessible place and 
we would invite the attention of those 
who have never visited the Island to see 
the home of picturesque traditions. It 
is one of the cradles of a deathless 
sport. It is a shrine of true adventure. 
Americans have no right to neglect 
Nantucket. It deserves their support, 
their patronage. 
It is an ocean voyage, one may say, 
of 54 nautical miles to the island of 
Nantucket. From the atmospheric 
wharves of New Bedford, across Buz¬ 
zards Bay, to Woods Hole, on to Oak 
Bluffs, which is merely a tip of Mar¬ 
tha’s Vineyard, touching at the Cross 
Rip Lightship, and then casually 
through the mouth of the jetties, to 
Nantucket’s harbor of romance, these 
ire miles of pleasure to those who love 
ilue sky and green waters. 
Why have we never quite realized or 
ippreciated the NOVELTY of this 
sland. It is absolutely unique. There 
s nothing quite like it. A dot of land, 
ar removed from our shores, as if 
ossed above the green billows by mere 
vhim of many elements. Historically, 
t is a ti easure trove. Every man who 
as ever baited a hook or made a feath- 
red lure should bow tribute to Nan- 
ucket. It is the last outpost of the 
ery birth of fishing. The hardy men 
dio lived there, generations gone, 
raved their lives for fish which only 
harpoon could catch. And much that 
’as true and live and throbbing with 
iterest when our forefathers were 
oung, is still existant on this remote 
antucket Island. 
The same roof towers loom above the 
reen trees, where wives of Captains 
ood watching for their loved ones to 
return: the same little windows display 
immaculate models of four-masters, the 
same sturdy elms which shaded women 
in flowing gowns and men in tarpaulins, 
shower their friendly benediction, on 
warm afternoons. Tucked away in odd 
corners, there are shops and people and 
ideas which time has scarcely tarnished. 
It is a sea-washed echo of the long, 
long ago, never quite real, despite the 
puir of motor cars and the chant of 
the summer tourist. The long arm of 
Civilization has almost as far a reach 
as to some South Sea Island. And the 
true Islander will NEVER change. He 
is impervious to it. It is a matter of 
Blood, and who shall change this tide 
in human veins in a hundred genera¬ 
tions? 
There are two wonderful g'olf courses 
on Nantucket, but my books of play 
were closed. Sonnyboy wanted me. It 
was not so much that he NEEDED me 
as that he had not wished to break in 
upon the sequestered habits of middle 
age. 
And I want to make this clear—de¬ 
spite all that has gone before, Sonny 
boy had not disappointed me. None of 
his dreams—nor mine—of the past 
year—had been disillusioned. I had 
been the drifter. I had lost contact. 
Once you wean a boy to the Outdoors, 
you have him for life, provided you do 
your share. And I had failed. I admit 
it. I had slipped a peg and it had re¬ 
quired the serious talk of a little 
woman in a pink evening dress, under 
the spell of the Nantucket moon, to 
bring me back—to sanity. 
There had been rumors of perch— 
and other catches—in the fresh water 
ponds of Nantucket. 
And what a choice! Westward, there 
was Long Pond, and Sheep Pond, and 
Hummock Pond, and Cupaum and 
Washing and Reedy and Great Mioxes, 
and Weeweder and Miacomet and No- 
Bottom. If we motored eastward we had 
an equally enthralling list—Nobadeer, 
Mattaquitcham, Toupche, Tom Nevers, 
Gibbs, Squam, Sacacha. And then 
there was always sunlit Polpis Harbor, 
opened once a year to the salt water of 
the outer harbor. 
And so we were to try our luck at 
perch in one of these lakes. The water¬ 
front had given me previous hint of the 
possibilities of Adventure. The ponds 
did not stir any true Islander’s pulse. 
It was the outer reaches which held 
any suggestions of romance. Perhaps 
the schooner Eleanora De Costa’s 
sounding lead, sixty miles southwest of 
Highland Light had brought up a cop¬ 
per cent dated 1881. Perhaps return¬ 
ing fishing boats had startling stories 
to tell of unprecedented catches of Scup. 
Perhaps Henry Kelley, of the fishing 
schooner Liberty fought a 300-lb. 
(Continued on page 670) 
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