In this little bay a single wild duck was swimming and diving and preening her feathers, disporting herself very happily in the flickering light and shade.
As she was looking out over the little bay, she remembered the time when as a little girl of six she had climbed up into the rowboat and rowed out into the bay alone.
The place where they embarked was a little bight or circular bay, and the boat cut across a much larger bay toward a distant headland where the caves were located, right at the water's edge.
As the little sealer set sail up the gulf she was commanded by a crew of two Frenchmen — men who had entered these waters as captives, who were leaving them as conquerors.
I have always resented that jarring, unattractive name, for years ago, when I first plied paddle across the gunwale of a light little canoe, and idled about its margin, I named the sheltered little cove the Lost Lagoon.