I have experienced as much heat and poorer fishing in Nova Scotia during July as I have on our ponds of the Cape, and in addition I have noticed more mosquitoes and midges to the cubic inch in Canada than on these same ponds; but of that perhaps the less said the better.
I have in mind a little excursion which illustrates these extremes of Cape life, and it is but one of many. In early July, when the children, freed from school restraint, were on the rampage, and our cottage was bearing the brunt of an onslaught of youthful visitors, each of our neighbors having one or two boys and girls as guests for their children, life seemed to me an unending series of activities coupled with ceaseless slang. In fact, I was “fed up” with it all, so that when my classmate and old friend R⸺ telephoned to say that he was going up to the pond for a day or so, I clung to the receiver in my joy to escape.
The preparations for such a trip are simple—a blanket, a change of clothing, a toothbrush, no razor, food enough to fill a small basket, and—yes, I suppose it must be confessed—a bottle.
My fishing tackle is always ready. The bait, however, is more difficult to secure. With net and pail I hastened to the creek which enters the harbor near our cottage, and, it being fortunately low tide, I was able, in the twenty minutes left before R⸺’s arrival, to secure a fair supply of shrimp. That was all there was to it. We were off well within an hour from the time of his message, and well within another hour we had arrived at his little shack perched high above the shore of one of the loveliest ponds on the Cape, and were settled for the night.
The camp was well stocked with wood and simply furnished with camp beds, the ordinary cooking-utensils, and such comforts as may be gathered about a broad hearth and a roaring fire.
Outside, the wind had died down and not a ripple disturbed the mirrored surface of the water, which reflected the delicate outline of cedar, pine, and oak, a lacy filament which shielded the setting sun from the already silvered reflection of the half-moon.
“A perfect time of a perfect day, in a well-nigh perfect spot,” I said, by way of expressing the joy of my escape.
“Such a burst of eloquence demands a toast,” remarked my friend.
So we forthwith resorted to the aforesaid bottle, and then turned to and prepared supper—the inevitable scrambled eggs, deviled ham, bread and marmalade, and coffee.