When I was a boy, I lived on the rugged coast of New England.  The sea abounded in cod, hake, mackerel, and many other kinds of fish.  The mackerel came in “schools” in late summer, and sometimes were very plentiful.  One day, my uncle James determined to go after some of these fish, with his son George, and invited me to go with them.  We were to start before day-break the next morning.  I went to bed that night with an impatient heart, and it was a long time before I could go to sleep.  After I did get asleep, I dreamed of the whale that swallowed Jonah, and all kinds of fishes, big and little.  I was awakened by somebody calling, in a very loud voice, “Robert!  Robert!” I jumped out of bed, with my eyes not more than half opened, and fell over the chair on which I had put my clothes.  This made me open my eyes, and I soon realized that the voice proceeded from my cousin George, who had come to arouse me for the fishing-voyage.

I dressed as quickly as possible, and went downstairs.  All was quiet in the house except the old clock ticking in the kitchen.  I went out-of-doors and found the stars still shining.  It was half-past three o’clock in the morning.  There was no sign of daylight, and even the cocks had not begun to crow.  In the darkness I espied George, who said, “Come, it is time to start.  Father is waiting for you.”

We walked across the fields to my uncle’s house.  Taking each a basket and knife, we began our journey, and soon entered the pine-woods.  As we walked along in the darkness, we could scarcely see each other or the path.  The wind was sighing mournfully among the tree-tops, and, as we gazed upward, we could see the stars twinkling in the clear sky.

We soon emerged from the forest, and came to a sandy plain.  Before us was the ocean, just discernible.  There were two or three lights, belonging to vessels that were anchored near the shore.  We could see the waves and hear their murmur, as they broke gently upon the shore.  A soft breeze was blowing from the west, and the sea was almost as smooth as a pond.

When we reached the beach, we found that it was low water.  The boat was at high-water mark.  What should we do?  We did as the fishermen in that region always do in the same circumstances—­took two rollers, perhaps six inches in diameter, lifted the bow of the boat, put one of the rollers under it, and the other upon the sand about eight feet in front of it.  We then pushed the boat until it reached the second roller, and rolled it upon that until the other was left behind.  Then the first was put in front of the boat, and so we kept on until our craft reached the water.  Uncle James and George took the oars, and I sat in the stern, with the tiller in my hand, to steer.

We got out over the breakers without difficulty, and rowed toward the fishing-ground.  It is queer that fishermen call the place where they fish, “the ground,” but that is only one of the many queer things that they do.  By this time, daylight had come.  The eastern sky was gorgeous with purple and red, and hues that no mortal can describe.  Soon a red arc appeared, and then the whole glorious sun, looking more grand and beautiful than can be thought of by one who has never seen the sun rise over the sea.