Little Jack, with mouth full of brown-bread, says,—
“I always frought bakes was in ovens and boils was in pots,” which makes the Harwood children laugh as they explain it is not yet time for “the bake;” there is fishing to be done first.
When the rods were brought out, wasn’t Artie pleased to find his so admired! Jem, himself, had never seen one so fine—even Jem, who showed him how to cut clams and put them on the hook, as better bait than worms,—told him from just what spot on the wharf he must fling out his line, and watched that line as well as his own, telling him just how long to let the fish nibble and just when to draw in.
When, finally, the prize came to land, it proved to be a large-sized, silvery scup, and then the city boy was almost wild with joy. Oh, wouldn’t that be a story to tell his children’s children, how their grandfather, at the age of ten, caught a regular scup, and a “two-pounder at that!”
“For he looked at the scales and found it so,
Just as his friend, Jem, had told him, oh!”
How Artie longed to lay the squirming trophy at his Mamma’s feet, and claim a loving kiss as best reward!
But, look! this is no time for dreaming! Jem’s “bob” has disappeared entirely, and “Jem is having a tricky one to deal with,” Ned whispers,—