[Illustration: GOING ASHORE.]

[Illustration: RAYMOND HALL.]

After supper we made our arrangements for the first day's shooting,
and then retired--sinking into beds so downy as to induce sleep in a
few moments--and we do sleep just as soundly as if we had always been
wise and good and happy. The club house, "Raymond Hall," is an
ordinary frame one, situated on the shore of the Sound, a few rods
from the sea. It is surrounded by a tolerable growth of persimmon and
other trees; it stands alone, and at night is as silent as the halls
of death--not a sound being heard except the bark of the watchful
house-dogs. The wind murmurs about the angles of the house, and
through the branches of the trees, in dreary harmony with the roar of
the ocean. It is somewhat startling, for a few nights, to us denizens
of cities, to notice the entire absence of all precautions against
depredators--there are neither locks nor bolts. Life is primitive
here; all honor the head of the family, and bow to his will. The
people, young and old, are universally kind and respectful to those
strangers who sojourn among them, meeting them in a spirit of
frankness and exacting the same. We shoot whenever the weather is
suitable, and amuse ourselves at other times in various
ways--repairing boats, rigging decoys, cleaning guns, loading shell,
and making ready for a good day when it does come. We breakfast
between eight and nine o'clock, then, donning our shooting attire,
including rubber boots, which are indispensable, we go to the landing.
Wading out to our boats, laden with all the implements of destruction,
we depart for the day's sport. A small fleet of five sail starts in a
bunch like a flock of white-winged birds; the swiftest of them shoot
ahead, fading out in the distance; others disappear behind the islands