countless inlets, the ripple of the waters making dim the outlines of
the corrugated surfaces of the submerged shore. At such times, and in
certain localities which shall be nameless, the wily hunter issues forth
in bathing-suit or rubber-booted, or even—in the enthusiasm of the
moment—fully clothed, with pail or basket sometimes attached to his waist
by a cord. He wades in at a slow pace, gazing searchingly into the depths
of the water for a sign of his prey, choosing at first the shoals where
it is easier to see, and as likely a spot as others for fine shellfish.
And here a curious phenomenon is discovered; his eye catches the glint
of a shining shell and he stoops to secure it, only to find a half shell
without life. The brighter the shell, the less chance of its being
inhabited. The scallop covers himself when possible with a few strands
of seaweed, or buries himself in the mud or sand, and therefore, when
in the full bloom of life, he looks like a hoary, hairy thing of past
history, an encrusted shell from which life might have departed a century
ago. If, by good fortune, the hand comes in contact with him, however,
his vitality is made quickly evident by a savage snap of his shell, as
the large muscle expands and contracts in self-defense, and should a
finger become caught between the upper and lower shells, the hunter is
in for a sharp nip. The quest leads from spot to spot, from shoal water
out into deeper parts, until one finds one’s self waist-deep, bending and
stooping, raking the bottom with frenzied hand groping for these tufted
prizes, and when one is fortunate to secure a good spot, the hand never
fails to bring up one, two, and sometimes more, of these irate creatures
whose antics evoke admiration and whose strength seems almost abnormal.
There are bright, warm days in the latter part of August when on many
parts of the shore may be seen men, women, and children by scores,
curiously and wonderfully garbed, grotesquely postured, wading the
waters in this fascinating pursuit, which, after the quiet glamor of
clam-digging, possesses the excitement of big-game hunting. Were it not
for a strict law these same hardy hunters would, undoubtedly, be found in
dories, plying a small net for the same purpose, but the very crudity
of the chase has its advantages, for one comes close to the life of the
sea bottom, and all that goes on there, from the waving masses of seaweed
of many varieties to the countless forms of life clinging to the rocks,
embedded in the mud or darting through the water. The sea bottom is as
busy as Broadway, and as full of mystery.
The reader must not for a moment imagine the scallop, however, as
belonging to a sedentary type of life. Often he is found moving at a high
rate of speed through the water, propelled by this same muscle which
provides his defense. By opening and closing his shell he moves forward
and upward or downward, apparently at will, digging himself into the mud
and effectually hiding himself from his pursuers. He deserves the respect
of his superiors in the animal kingdom, and at the same time proves
himself fair game by his prowess.
And so one is led out and out still farther, until, bent upon securing
one more victim, a mouthful of water and smarting eyes give notice that
those beyond are safe for the time being, and the successful hunter
returns to his boat with a full pail, while the sun, enormous and a deep
orange red, is just touching the horizon.
The conquest is not complete, for it is no easy task to open these
snapping bivalves, and thus to extract the muscle that is the edible
portion, and the full reward is by no means reaped. That is left for the
evening meal, when the scallop becomes the _pièce de résistance_ cooked
in one of a hundred ways. But of this let a _cordon bleu_ convince you,
whose best efforts are secured and deserved by the scallop.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_AFTERMATH_
And now comes the fall of the year with days gorgeous in coloring, from
the clear crystal blue of the sky reflected in sparkling waters to the
flame-tinted stretches of woodland watched over by tall pines and guarded
by stately cedars. The sandy roads glisten in the distances, marking off
sections of the Cape country as a huge picture puzzle. The atmosphere
seems purged of all imperfection, giving to every town and hamlet a
spotless appearance bright with late flowers and fresh fruit awaiting
the harvest. Azure days of October, the most perfect of the year. It is
then that regretfully we say “au revoir” to our beloved Cape in all its
glory.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS
U.S.A