An Ill-Fated Fishing Excursion to Brown's Wharf

On Wednesday morning, a party of ladies and gentlemen embarked in the neat little sail-boat bearing the patriotic name of Union, for Brown's Wharf, at which place they proposed to pass the day in fishing. But whoever heard of a real fishing party without some mishap, or of one which resulted in the capture of a single representative of the finny tribe? The Union had not proceeded more than one-fourth the distance before our amateur navigators had her grounded on a mud flat. This mishap was the more unpleasant from the fact that the tide was falling rapidly, affording a fair prospect of keeping the party in uncomfortably close quarters for several hours. A canoe was shoved off to their relief, and the party arrived at their destination about 11 o'clock. After baiting and re-baiting, and speculating upon the singular perversity of the fish in not giving us a bite, we affirmed that probably the fish have all been fished out. Returning to camp, we found a splendid collation spread upon a plank placed across two projecting boughs, in the vicinity of a rippling stream of crystal water. After clearing away the table and a stroll on the beach, we weighed anchor and turned our prow homeward. All seemed to be delighted with the day's sport, and not in the least annoyed that we brought nothing to show that the grapes were not sour.