On the
grass, under the trees, a great long table was set out with plates,
glasses, castors, and things. At the end, two pails of ice, with the
necks of a dozen bottles peeping up like hungry birds in a nest, stood
ready for somebody to uncork.

Well, the nig--freedman gave that sail a jerk, and a cloud of salty
steam rolled up from the sea-grass. Then he raked away a winrow of that,
dug out a pail of melted butter and vinegar, and held a lobster up by
one claw, looking red as a British soldier's jacket. The creature had
given up fighting, and hung in his hand meek as Moses. The poor thing
was green enough when he went in, but came out blazing red and steaming
hot.

More sea-weed; chickens dripping with gravy; heaps of corn; potatoes,
mealy, and broken open; fish, and then those longish-round shell
things, heaped in plates and dishes, were carried off to the table. We
followed those dishes; we sat down to eat. Those longish hard-shelled
creatures had all burst open, and something that smelt delicious lay
inside, with black heads sticking out.

I watched to see what the rest did with those animals, then seized one
by the head, drew him out, soused him in the melted butter, and dropped
him softly into my open mouth.

"Delicious, scrumptious, beyond anything I ever ate in my life," says I,
when Mr. Burke leaned toward me and wanted to know how I liked it. "But
what are these black-headed things with shells, called?"

"Oh, soft-shells--the best part of the clam-bake, I think," says he.

"I reckon you are right," says I, taking another little fellow by the
nape of the neck, and biting him off at the shoulders. Then I drank a
glass of the sparklingest cider you ever tasted, and went in for an ear
of corn, smoking hot, and the breast of a chicken.

Mr. Burke wanted me to eat some of the red lobster, but the thought of
it made me creep all over, so I asked to be excused, and said I
preferred a dozen or two more soft-shells.

There was a good deal of first-rate cider drank around that table, and
we left a bushel of open shells under the trees, besides a heap of
lobsters, clams, and chicken bones, well picked.

Then we went back to look at the place where they had been cooked, and
found nothing but a heap of smoking stones, a ring of burnt grass, and a
pile of steamy sea-weed. Somehow, the sight of it all made me feel sort
of faint, and it didn't seem to me that I should ever want to eat or
drink again.

We went home