I stand alone, and so proceeded to the back door of the house; for those
who know Cape-Codders well enough realize the inconvenience and delay
which a knock at the front door provokes.
Seeing a middle-aged woman bending over the stove in the kitchen, I
called a merry “Good-afternoon” by way of salutation.
“Good-afternoon,” she replied as an echo might have thrown back my words.
“I saw your sign ‘antiques’ and thought perhaps I might have a look at
them,” I continued, nothing daunted.
“Mister Eldridge ain’t to home, but if you want to go out to the barn you
can see what he’s got,” she replied, without even turning her head to see
what sort of a second-story man I might be.
Here was luck, however, for I could look over the stock in trade of this
ambitious couple to my heart’s content, and I made haste to the barn,
which I found converted into one of the most amazing junk-shops it has
ever been my pleasure to explore.
Crowded together without rhyme or reason, and with no thought of display,
were the goods and chattels of generations of Cape-Codders; tables,
chairs, beds, sofas, ice-chests, a parlor organ, curtain rods, bits of
carpet, crockery in all stages of dilapidation. On one of the tables a
variety of hardware was strewn about, on one of the stiff-backed chairs
reposed three old brass lanterns. A Rogers group on a kitchen table
was flanked by a White Mountain ice-cream freezer on one side and a
fine old fire bucket on the other. A four-poster, of apple-wood, with
fluted posts terminating in pineapple tops, the wood in an excellent
state of preservation, was the repository of a half-dozen pictures,
three face-down, while one of the others disclosed itself as a really
good copy of the engraving of Washington and his family. But to the
casual observer, there seemed scarcely a piece of furniture or, in fact,
anything which was sufficiently in repair to survive the journey to my
house; furthermore, the rank and file of articles were of recent date and
had no charm for the collector.
However, the very hopelessness of the quest whetted my appetite, and to
the utter disgust of my family, I spent a good half-hour rummaging about,
not only in the main part of the barn, but also in the stalls, and even
in the hayloft, for the whole building was bulging with what seemed the
cast-off furnishings of the entire Cape.
The result of my examination was a really fine ship’s lantern which I
found in the loft; a pair of old pewter pepper pots, reclining in an old
soap dish, and a couple of straight-back rush-seated chairs, a trifle
rickety, but with the seats in excellent condition with the original rush
plaiting, which is unmistakable.
For fear of mislaying my selection, I had brought them outside the barn,
and at that moment a lanky, middle-aged farmer drove up in a buggy and
slowly got out.
“Is this Mr. Eldridge?” I asked.
“Thet’s me,” he replied. “Been havin’ a look over the department store?
I ain’t got in my elevators, an’ the outing department [here he looked
at my golfing tweeds] ain’t much to brag about, but I’ve got ’most
everything in thar except the town hearse an’ I’m savin’ that for my
mother-in-law.”
By George! I thought, here’s one of the real old-timers, nothing taciturn
about him, and I pointed to the modest selection I had made and asked
him what the price was.
“Well, as to price,” he replied, taking off his hat and meditatively
scratching his head, “that’s the worst of the business. I never just know
what my things are worth. Them chairs came from old widow Crocker’s, over
by Forestdale. She’d never sell ’em till she died, an’ then she couldn’t
help herself an’ her son-in-law cleaned the place out, an’ I got quite
a lot of stuff an’ paid him for the lot. What d’you say to a couple o’
dollars apiece?”
I said, “Yes,” as soberly as I could. I would have given much more.
“As to that lantern, it’s a good ’un and the glass is all right. I shall
have to get at least four dollars.”
“All right,” said I, cheerfully, for I had seen a smaller one in Chatham
go for eight just a few days before. “And how about the pepper pots?”
“Oh, you kin have ’em for—let’s see—’bout seventy-five apiece.” And I
agreed.
“What do you do with all this stuff?” I asked, as he helped me to dispose
of my treasures in an already well-filled car.
“Oh, mostly I sell to the Portugees that come here farmin’ and
cranberryin’. Now an’ then I get some old stuff same as you jest picked
up, but generally it’s the newer kind they like the best. I jest set
that there sign up ’cause I see every durn fellow ’long the road what
has a toothpick or a shavin’ mug to sell puts up a sign, an’ so, says I,
guess I’ll stick up one too.”
And that is the way I became acquainted with Silas Eldridge, dealer
in antiques, who has sold me many a real treasure, but I keep his
whereabouts as secret as possible, for of all the fascinating places for
picking up astonishing bargains on Cape Cod, his old dilapidated barn
offers the most surprises.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VII
A BLUE STREAK
Slang is both the curse and the delight of the English language, and that
form of slang which our British friends term “Americanisms,” and which we
have now largely adopted as our national mode of communication, is not
confined to the youth of to-day by any means. In the home, in business,
and of course in sport, slang has found its way and has spread like the
weeds in the garden of the over-enthusiastic commuter. I remember hearing
a clergyman of national reputation and advancing years say a short time
ago, after a satisfying excursion of some sort, that he had “had more fun
than a goat,” and I defied him to elucidate that time-worn phrase to my
satisfaction.
The derivations and origins of American idioms and colloquial expressions
are vastly interesting, not only in showing the resourcefulness of our
people in cutting wordy corners and in the development of a certain
form of humor which I do not defend, but in shedding real light upon
the whys and wherefores of our universe down to its smallest detail. A
temperamental curiosity has led me from time to time to look up certain
of the commoner expressions, and I am indebted to this eccentric hobby
for several pleasurable experiences.
Many years ago—so many in fact that the memory is distasteful—I went to a
horse-race where the winner passed our stand at a pace which my companion
described as “going like a blue streak,” a familiar term with which I
ignorantly agreed at the time. I suppose that since then I have heard it
repeated many hundred times, but it was not until last summer when my son
applied it to a motor-boat passing out of the harbor, that I thought of
inquiring into its origin, and discovered, much to my surprise, that it
applied to the illusive and disconcerting movements of the ordinary sea
crab, often called the “blue claw.”
The discovery piqued my curiosity and I determined forthwith to
investigate the locomotory accomplishments of these retiring animals.
This was not as easy a task as I had expected. The crab is not socially
inclined, and the term “crabbed” is soon apparent. He is only to be found
at low tide, and generally near the mouth of a salty creek where the
bottom is muddy and sparsely covered with seaweed and eelgrass. There in
the late summer and fall he can be seen from canoe or rowboat, if one is
patient and watchful, and the expression to “go like a blue streak” fits
him like a glove.
Having provided myself with a net of the butterfly variety, I determined
to secure a specimen, and began my search among the creeks, so numerous
along the shores of Cape Cod. Although we came upon quite a number, it
took the entire morning to capture four.
When unmolested, these creatures crawl slowly and deliberately about
their business, sluggish in manner and shabbily dark in appearance,
grubbing about on the bottom, now in, now out of the seaweed, but the
instant that danger is threatened, they undergo a transformation. The
claws, from sprawling about on the mud at every angle, are drawn in, and
like a flash—or, far better, “like a blue streak”—the particular crab
that you have selected for capture darts away at an angle that leaves
you helpless with wonder at the suddenness of his departure and at the
blueness of his appearance.
As soon as you have spotted your prey the excitement begins. Armed with
the net, you crawl quietly to the bow of the boat and in whispers direct
the rower, now this way, now that, following the route taken by the
capricious crab. Sometimes the water is deep enough to permit the use
of the oars, at others it is necessary to pole the boat in and out among
the rocks covered by seaweed, your journey always attended by silence and
stealth as if the slightest noise would precipitate in flight this wily
crustacean.
At last when you are within striking distance, the net is plunged in
among the grass and brought up, alas! empty, and the hunt continues as
before.
When, after repeated trials, your patience is rewarded and a fine big
fellow is caught, the greatest care must be taken to prevent him from
crawling out of the net and escaping before he is landed in the boat,
for his activities are ceaseless.
Indeed, even after he is flung deftly into the pail, his savage struggles
may succeed in freeing him from captivity. And so it is only with
infinite caution and patience—qualifications necessary in every game—that
you are able to land your prize, and it is only then that you will find
the explanation of the color quality of his passing. As the crab is taken
from the water, its mud-colored shell appears a dark ultramarine blue,
the claws of a lighter shade, the under part shading to white tinged with
pink; its entire surface seems metallic in the intensity of its coloring
as it leaves the water. From a slow, lazy animal of peaceful habits, the
crab has become a veritable monster, savage and fiercely aggressive, and
woe to the unfortunate within reach of his claws.
His capture is a real experience and a distinctly sporting event. So
interesting and mysterious is the search, so active and adventurous
the pursuit, and so exciting and satisfying the actual catch, that one
is tempted to place crabbing among the big events of a summer at the
seashore.
I know a college professor who annually devotes the better part of his
vacation to this pastime, and several of my athletic friends, whose
prowess on the football field was a matter of international comment
in the papers, confess to the delights of a crab hunt; but it is a
surprising fact, nevertheless, that the majority of those who visit the
seacoast each year have never even heard of the extraordinary fascination
of hunting the originator of the “blue streak.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII
A FRESH-WATER CAPE
To the majority of people Cape Cod spells sea breezes, a tang of salt in
the air, scrub oaks, tall pines, stretches of sand, and a large appetite.
To the few who know the Cape from more intimate acquaintance there is
added to this picture a swelling country densely wooded in sections and
spotted with ponds. It is a source of never-ending wonder how these
ponds exist in a country where the soil is so porous that a few minutes
after a shower there is no trace of the rain. In almost every instance
they are fed from springs beneath the surface, and the solution has been
offered and quite generally believed that much of this fresh water flows
in subterranean channels having their source far distant in the White
Mountains.
So plentiful is the supply that wells and pipes, driven a few feet into
the soil at almost any spot, furnish clear, pure water in ample supply
for household needs. A more remarkable fact is that at low tide in many
of the harbors and inlets fresh water can be found between the high and
low stretches, oozing through the salty surface of sand and mud. And so
the Cape, for all its salt qualities, has fresh water in profusion and
ponds without number. In Plymouth County alone there are 365 ponds, many
of them of substantial size, while the lower Cape is almost equally well
provided.
A generation ago, many of the residents of Plymouth passed their summers
on the largest of these—Long Pond. Having the salt breezes most of the
year they wisely sought a change to inland waters.
Last year I met a gentleman fishing in Wakeby Pond—made famous by
Cleveland and Joe Jefferson—who told me he came on from Chicago every
year to pass a month bass fishing. He was probably ten miles from the
coast, and might have been a hundred for all the good it did him; but on
the other hand, why not a pond on the Cape as well as a Rangeley Lake
in Maine? The life is much the same—the air refreshing and the scenery
delightful.
These larger ponds are fully as large as many of the Maine lakes. Long
Pond at Plymouth is said to be ten miles long, and I have seen the water
at Great Herring Pond as rough as one would care to have it when canoeing.
To be sure the fishing is not perhaps so very exciting—few trout, except
in the occasional streams which have been stocked, but land-locked
salmon, perch, and pickerel to be had with a little patience, and a
shrimp or so. The real pleasure which these ponds offer is the surprise
and delight of coming upon them as one does frequently and quickly while
motoring through the less-frequented roads. From Plymouth down the Cape
through Sandwich nearly every road and by-path leads to some picturesque
little sheet of water often closely wooded to its shores and without a
sign of habitation.
From Wareham or Cotuit, from Pocasset or Falmouth, from Hyannis or
Chatham—in short, from nearly every one of the many Cape towns, a ride
of fifteen or twenty minutes will take one to a pond which might as well
be fifty miles from any center of human activity. One rarely meets other
adventurers upon such trips, and the silence and peace which reign form
excellent foils to the summer life so near at hand.
Those who are wise in Cape ways possess small canoes mounted upon two
wheels, which are fastened on behind their cars, so that, when touring
the ponds, they are not limited in their fishing to the shore or to the
chance of finding a boat.
There are a number of gentlemen who have built small camps upon certain
of these secluded spots for casual excursions and for spring and fall
use. They are wise. By leaving Boston at noon they can always be in camp
by sundown ready to enjoy a full Sunday, while the mighty fisherman who
depends entirely upon the Maine lakes or the more remote places must plan
a week’s vacation, with the chance of better sport, to be sure, but no
better life, for the life of a sportsman in the open is much the same.
The great outdoors is universal in its appeal to the sane-minded and
healthy-bodied.
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.
“To think of that howling mob at home only twenty minutes away,” I mused,
puffing contentedly at my pipe and reveling in the silence.
“To think of what a motor will do!” replied my friend, who was not
unaware of my opinion of cars.
I muttered something incoherently, and squirmed a bit at the thought of
some of my notions.
The next morning we were up with the sun, and after a hasty bite, put our
canoe into the water and set about our main task.
We were both fairly familiar with the haunts of the wily bass. In summer
they lie close to the bottom, the laziest of fellows, sucking in the
bait, if they notice it at all, in a dreamy fashion, but, once hooked,
they show their mettle, and so, when I finally felt a slight strain on my
line, I held back until I was sure of my fish. Yes, I had him, and a good
big one at that.
There is little or no casting in midsummer, so that I had brought a
stouter trolling-rod, and it was just as well. I played that fellow for
ten minutes, and when R⸺ finally netted him for me, we sat and looked at
each other speechless.
“By gad, he’s a five-pounder!” said my friend excitedly.
“Hum—about four and three quarters,” I replied in a matter-of-fact tone
to cover my excitement.
We caught twelve that morning, several weighing two pounds or
more,—splendid fishing, the best we had ever had on the pond.
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?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX
AL FRESCO
Before you pass judgment upon any man or woman of your acquaintance, ask
him or her to a picnic. Then if you are not ready to form a decision,
they will probably have made up their minds about you. A picnic, so
the Dictionary has it, is an entertainment in a grove, an ominous and
hazardous place at best for a good time, and one to be avoided except
by sentimental couples, and therefore the Dictionary may be considered
narrow-minded in naming the locality. Furthermore, its advice is rarely
followed in these days, and the picnics which I prefer, and they are
countless, are held upon the seashore and, for the most part, in the sea
itself.
There is a white, sandy beach of a mile or more, banked by great
sand-dunes and bordering a section of Buzzard’s Bay which is
comparatively unknown, where there are no houses, not even bath-houses,
and where the delighted squeal of the noisy girl or the guffaw of the
blatant youth is rarely heard. It is here that we frequently gather with
a few good friends upon pleasant warm days, for an impromptu meal _al
fresco_, preceded by a joyous bath in water as clear as crystal, warm and
yet with a spiciness that clears the head from all drowsiness and whets
the appetite to a keen edge.
There are problems to every picnic. The conventions of life grip hard,
and yet it is curious and sometimes amusing to see how thin the veneer
really is when the primitive necessities of a picnic are faced.
The sand-dunes are conveniently rolling, every now and then dipping into
bowl-like formations, and in these sequestered or semi-sequestered nooks
we don our bathing-suits and sally forth to the sea. One of our friends,
a man somewhat particular as to his appearance and the soul of modesty,
was directed to the appointed place, but his love for the view led him up
the slope, so that, innocently turning our gaze shoreward, the feminine
portion of our gathering was considerably disconcerted to see the apostle
of Beau Brummel in nature’s garb innocently viewing the horizon and
giving little heed to his natty bathing-suit, a black and orange affair
with immaculate white belt which lay at his feet.
The women, too, those who but a few moments before would have tried
in every way to conceal a hole in their stockings, were glad to borrow
bathing-dresses of any reasonable style if by chance they had forgotten
to pack their own, and stockings seemed of no importance.
To line up twenty or more on the beach and rush for a plunge, to breast
the billows or to grope amid the sands for sea clams, to race along
the beach for the sheer joy of life, is the glad part of what I call
a picnic. And then the food! No meal which must be coaxed along by a
cocktail or other appetizer, to prepare the way for course after course
of indigestible concoctions planned by fertile-minded chefs, but honest
beef and chicken and ham sandwiches, delicately prepared and tastefully
arranged. Sandwiches of lettuce and cheese and paprika; sandwiches with
sardines, with olives; graham sandwiches with a thin layer of marmalade
or guava intended for the children, but partaken of by all. And stuffed
eggs, the variety only to be found at a picnic and eaten in two gulps,
the one place where such table manners are tolerated.
And it is on picnics that the thermos bottle is most thoroughly
appreciated. The miracle of hot bouillon, hot coffee, iced tea, and a
variety of beverages, suitably chilled or heated, seems ever to be a
source of fresh surprise and pleasure.
Toward autumn, the picnics offer a new variety, for the children thrill
at the expectation of cooking their own dinner. The joys of a bonfire,
the excitement of burying potatoes, corn, and clams in seaweed, the
frying of ham and eggs, and the occasional treat of flapjacks when one
of our nautical friends happens to be of our number. These are but a few
of the pleasures of a picnic such as one encounters on the shores of
Buzzard’s Bay in August and September.