À PARTY of us are staying with the Hon. Jacobus Halibut, at his charming country-seat on the borders of the Bay of Acadia. His lawn slopes to the water, and in the cove below lie moored boats of every description; for the Hon. Jacobus is an accomplished sailer, and goes through more work, by way of amusement, than any one but an English squire who rides to hounds twice a week.

It is breakfast-time, and we linger pleasantly over our coffee and muffins, discussing the chances of the Harvards against the Oxfords in the international boat-race, when the master of the house rises, and, approaching the window of the dining-room, which commands a noble view of the Bay, scans the sky with a scrutinizing glance that takes in all possibilities of wind.

"Come on!" he calls. "Who's going with me in the yacht? I shall be off in five minutes."

“I!" "and I!” “and I!” “and I!” burst from the lips of the assembled company, all eager and excited in a

moment.

"Well, come, 'hyper.' If you are not ready at once, it will be too late. Boys, run and get the boat off. Where's my great-coat? Call Jack to unfurl the sails of the yacht. You'd better bestir yourselves every body."

The "boys," who are the nephews of the Hon. Mr. Halibut, spending their holidays with their uncle, fly on the wings of delight; the group of ladies disperse to their rooms, whence they soon emerge in picturesque boatingcostumes of water-proof trimmed with gay colors. Then they pause in the hall a moment, to tie great brown veils over frightful hats with immense brims, quite unlike the jaunty little affairs in which they play croquet, and then rush impetuously out upon the lawn.

"Bring an oar, each of you!

a stentorian voice down the beach.

roars

We gentlemen, who have exchanged our morning-coats for round-abouts and wide-awakes, offer to relieve the ladies of their share of the burden, but they are resolved to assist; so every body shoulders an oar, or a boat-hook, or a tiller, or some piece of boat furniture, and we march in procession down to the shore.

I find these long yacht-oars unwieldy. First I knock off somebody's hat, and, in apologizing and drawing back the blade suddenly, the handle, which extends farther behind me than I had supposed, nearly knocks down one of the boys who is following me with a coil of rope.

There has been a great skurry and commotion up-stairs during the dressing process. Voices were calling from the different rooms, "Oh! will he be gone?" "I can't find my hat! "Have you seen my veil and gloves?" "What shall I do? I shall never be ready in time!" Servants have been rushing about at the orders of Mrs. Halibut, who is superintending the putting up of provisions, which now make their appearance in great covered hampers, packed close, with necks of bottles and unwieldy edges of parcels protruding from the corners.

With great haste and expedition we have all hurried through our preparations; so that, on tearing frantically down upon the beach, I am surprised to find half the party sitting tranquilly on stones or logs that are scattered over it, while our group is straggling along at different angles to avoid hitting each other with our obtrusive burdens.

"Where's the boat?" is the first cry, as no means of conveyance appears to transport us from the shore to the Hurricane, which lies at its moorings about a hundred yards out in the stream.

"Mr. Halibut has gone out to the yacht in it," says Flirtina. "He will send it in for us by and by."

"But I thought he was in a great hurry," says one who is a comparative stranger to the habits of the household.

Lasella, who is satirical, laughs. "The skipper never likes to wait," she says; “but if we get off in an hour we shall be fortunate;" and she begins cracking the little sea-weed bubbles that the tide has thrown up among the drift-wood.

Halbert, who is averse to labor, and refuses to join our expedition, stretches his lazy length beside her, and the two exchange repartee, and low ripples of laughter come from the pair.

Guy, who is of an active temperament, skips stones across the water.

Flirting is hunting shells along the shore.

Mrs. Halibut and the other ladies sit chatting on a log, with a pile of wraps beside them.

After half an hour Mr. Halibut comes ashore in the boat in a terrible hurry, and the baskets and oars and cloaks and ropes are piled in. The ladies tumble in over the bow, regardless of every thing except the necessity of throwing the balance on the side of the boat, and not of the water.

After much pushing and squealing, and rolling of the boat from side to side, it is finally launched, and the party transferred to the deck of the larger vessel.

Once on board, Mr. Halibut, who on shore is a mild-spoken and reserved gentleman, becomes imperative and dictatorial, and, on his own quarter-deck, is every inch a skipper. The scene appears to me one of dire confusion. In front of the mast is a jumble of ropes, sails, spars, buoys, and boat-hooks. The little place astern of the cabin is filled with shawls and baskets and the ladies. I am not used to yachting, and think any empty place will do; so I dispose myself comfortably upon a clear space near the mast.

"Take care, Mr. Smythe-you'll be overboard!" cries the warning voice of the skipper. I feel something move behind me; somebody collars me, and I find myself sprawling on a bundle of

ropes, very near the hole that goes down into the forecastle, and the big boom swings over the place where I had just been sitting.

"That was a narrow escape," says Mr. Halibut. "I just saved you."

I thank him, pick myself up with discretion, and think I will go below, which I do.

The cabin is small, and the floor is encumbered with spare sails, ropes, and extra oars, and Guy is pitching down wraps, and calls out to me to take the baskets.

the

I am tall, and, when I stand up, I bump my head against the top; and the seats have uneven cushions on them, covered with a glazed rubber-cloth. There is a carpet on the floor, and curtains to the little windows, and if the place was cleared up, it might be comfortable; but sitting on a pile of shawls, with my feet in a basket, isn't agreeable. I do not like the motion, either; there is an unpleasant roll about it.

I put my head up the companionway, and ask,

At

"How far have we got?" Nobody notices me at first. length Lasella catches sight of my rueful countenance, and laughs.

"We haven't started yet. We are fastened to the buoy, but the wind drifts us round. Why don't you come up?"

Thus encouraged, I go up the steps, and find a place where I can stow my long legs by sitting on the top stair, and letting my feet stay down below.

The boys are undoing the rope in front. We are off, The skipper is busy in the fore-part of the vessel.

"Take the helm, Flirtina!" calls he. I feebly offer my services, hoping she will not accept them, for I should not know what to do if she did.

She smiles very sweetly, and says, "Please let me; I like it." She evidently does not know how ignorant I am, and I assume an air of great intelligence.

"Hard down!" cries the skipper.

What does he mean? I dodge my head, thinking that dreadful boom is

coming over; but nobody else does, so I put it up again, and find that the order applies to the helm with which Flirtina is struggling. I try to help

her.

"Take care!" she cries, "that is the wrong way;" and the skipper thunders out,

"What are you doing there, Flirtina? Keep her away! keep her AWAY!”

What can this signify? How can I keep her away? She won't move. I ask Flirtina, politely, if she had not better leave the helm to me, since Mr. Halibut seems afraid that she will get hurt.

She laughs out: "He doesn't mean me; he means the yacht-that I am to keep away from the wind."

I thought that people sought a wind when they went sailing; but the skipper is peculiar-he keeps away from it. I say this to Lasella. She responds at random.

"Shall I belay the sheet to this cleat?"-evidently addressing Mr. Hali

⚫ but.

"Don't do any thing till I tell you," is the blunt reply.

She doesn't seem to mind it.

The skipper is still in the bow, looking out. "Luff!-let her luff!" His tones are certainly very imperative. "Keep her up till she shivers ! "

Flirtina pays me not the least attention; her eyes have gone aloft. She looks distractingly pretty under her ugly hat, with her fluffy golden hair blowing round her face, and her cheeks and eyes glowing with the exercise; but she is thinking of nothing but the sails, and now she is ordered to "keep her full!"

Full, indeed! I should think we were full enough. I can't turn round, there are so many people.

Here comes the skipper back to the stern. He takes the helm, and we settle ourselves. There is a big mainsail up, and another sail-a jib, I think they call it.

"Just haul in on that sheet a little, Mr. Smythe," says Mr. Halibut, poИtely.

I make a dive at the sail, which is the only thing about which looks to me like a sheet.

"Not that, you99 Mr. Halibut stops abruptly in his sentence, and savagely grasps a little rope near me, which he unfastens, and then twists around a funny little piece of wood shaped like the top of a T.

I fervently hope no one else has noticed my blunder, but Mrs. Halibut kindly tries to console me :

"A sheet is a sail at sea," she says, amiably. "You must not be expected to know every thing. Mr. Halibut never tells any body any thing, but takes it for granted that the whole world is as wise as himself."

Why don't you hoist the flying-jib, and get up the gaff-topsail?" asks that terribly knowing Flirtina.

“You don't know much, Flirty," says Mr. Halibut. "How do you expect we can carry more canvas, when we have too much sail on now?"

Flirtina laughs, and does not mind a bit.

We are beginning to tip. We are tipping very much.

"Sit to windward!" says the skipper, which is the signal for every body to rush to the upper side of the boat.

I think I should prefer the more comfortable seat on the lower side, but am a little afraid to try it, and so follow the example of the others.

Imagine yourself on a slippery canvas cushion at an angle of forty-five degrees, and you will know my sensations. A great dash of salt-water comes slap in my face. Every body laughs. I smile grimly, and wipe it away; but a great deal has gone down my back. I feel that my collar is very limp. Nothing is so unbecoming as a collar with the starch out. My coat-sleeve, which is of homespun, is very wet, too. Homespun always shrinks when it is wet. I feel it crawling up to my elbow. How uncomfortable!

"Now, this is glorious!" says Lasella. “I do delight in this. Don't you find it charming when it is bobby, Mr. Smythe?"