seven o'clock
One warm , cloudy morning the notion seized me to go up to the ponds and try for black bass . There are bass in some of the larger ponds -- lakes they would be called anywhere else except on Cape Cod -- and , if one is lucky , and the weather is right , and the bait tempting , they may be caught . This particular morning promised to furnish the proper brand of weather , and a short excursion on the flats provided a supply of shrimps and minnows for bait . Dorinda , who happened to be in good humor , put up a lunch for me and , at seven o'clock , with my rod and landing net in their cases , strapped , with my fishing boots and coffee pot , to my back , and my bait pail in one hand and lunch basket in the other , I started on my tramp . It was a long four miles to Seabury 's Pond , my destination , and Lute , to whom , like most country people , the idea of a four-mile walk was sheer lunacy , urged my harnessing the horse and driving there . But I knew the overgrown wood roads and the difficulty of piloting a vehicle through them , and , moreover , I really preferred to go afoot . So I marched off and left him protesting .