When we reached the camp and weighed my prize, he tipped the scales at five and three ounces—a record fish.
Late in the afternoon the clouds began to gather and the wind turned northeast, so we decided to run for cover.
I was at home in time for dinner, and found the spell broken. It was I who did the talking, an amazing amount of it, while the youngsters sat open-mouthed when my bass was brought onto the table in a platter all to himself, garnished by our cook, who, so says my wife, is proud of my ability as a provider.
What more versatile land of summer, then, can one imagine than the seashore with an almost permanent breeze, with a chain of inland ponds remote and wild in character almost at one’s back door, motorively speaking?
If variety is truly the spice of life, what better seasoned offering has any locality to show than Cape Cod?
