and I begin to think, as I stretch my self on deck in the shadow of the sail, that yachting is a very delightful thing, and that a lady's being nautical is, perhaps, after all, no drawback to her charms.

SONG.

The wind blows fresh from the cold Northwest,
The ship swings clear and free,

And we tread the deck with a sailor's zest,
And point for the open sea.

We trim the sheets, and fill the sails,

And let the boom swing by ;

There is not one heart in our midst that fails,
Each pulse beats loud and high.

The white sails shiver, the thin sheets lash,
And up in the taut-strung shroud

We hear, keeping time with the soft waves' plash,
The wind pipe sweet and loud.

For the breeze of the ship and the sounding sea
Makes his harp and trumpet shrill,

And plays the strings with a Triton's glee,
And murmurs or peals at will.

Crowd hard the helm! till the dashing spray
Flies up o'er the vessel's prow,

Till the deck is wet, and the sailors say,
She quivers from stern to prow.

Then away, then away, o'er the white-capped wave,
And sing as we sail along,

For our spirits are light, and our hearts are brave, And our good ship stout and strong.

Behind us lies the river, blue, and dimpled with the dying breeze. An August haze softens the outlines of the picturesque hills that rise from its shores. Before us, the bay widens, displaying its islets, and its fair, broad waters covered with shimmering sails; while the round outlines of the bluffs on the Mascarene shore rise before us, dark and wooded at the base, bald and gray on their summits; and between the islands we catch glimpses of the narrow passage through which Pierre du Guast, Sieur de Monte, sailed more than two hundred and fifty years ago to explore, with his brave sailors, his grant of the broad lands of Acadie.

Far up in the distance one can see the island on which the adventurers passed that ill-starred winter, where the remnants of French bricks and pottery still show the site of his little settlement.

Having read a book, recently, about De Monte's expedition, I venture little allusions to this circumstance, and become eloquent as Flirtina's eyes are

fixed upon me with an appearance of interest.

When I have rounded my first pe riod, she makes a little well-bred pause then asks me to hand her the lunchbasket from below, as Mrs. Halibut is going to give us something to eat.

It is this, then, which has given her that flattering appearance of attention !

Quite crestfallen, I go below, and, after knocking my head on the beams, and stumbling over the oars, which trip me up, I succeed in finding the hampers, and Guy helps me to bring them on deck.

We discuss ham sandwiches, and fried chickens, and blueberry pies, and drink cider which pops like champagne, while Bob builds a fire in the stove, to give us hot water to make tea.

I try to go into the forecastle to do something to help him, but the aperture between the after-cabin and the fore is so narrow, that I stick fast, and kick about helplessly, till Guy comes to the rescue and straightens me out again.

Lunch on a yacht is pleasant, but exciting. Now and then an unexpected lurch upsets your mug of hot tea, which you are carefully balancing on your knee, and scalds you. Then those dreadful sheets play the mischief with the knives and forks; and, not being quite used to the motion, I find myself dropping a large piece of butter in Lasella's lap, which she bears with great equanimity, assuring me she "doesn't mind."

With the exception of one or two little drawbacks of this kind, I get through very well, but I am glad when it is over.

"Now let us set the ring-tail, boys," says the skipper.

This I take to be a kind of nautical dance, till Flirtina tells me it is another little sail which I see them rigging upon the far end of the main boom.

I venture something about the Hurricane being now a Ring-tailed Roarer, but nobody seems to think it is a joke, so I don't emphasize it.

The wind is certainly very light. We

sand in a broad beach, with curiouslyshelving cliffs behind it. A great rock towers in the foreground, whose sandstone base, washed all around by the tide at high-water, has been worn away into the semblance of an hour-glass pul

Now there is a tremendous scrabbling and ducking, and the sails flap, and the sheets lash, and there is a complication with the gaff-topsail, and a dreadful difficulty with the squaresail, and the jib, which is soon of no use, comes down with a run, and, the boys not being quick enough, it gets in the water, and excites the skipper.

Now we should be going before the wind, but there is no wind. The sails are "wing and wing," Lasella tells me, one on one side of the mast, and the other on the other, like a bird's wings, but we do not progress rapidly. fact, on consulting a pine-tree on the shore, I find we are going backwards.

In

I am reminded of the naval examination of one of my friends, who, after having given several satisfactory answers to the question, "What would you do if your vessel was in irons (i. e. going astern)?" and, being irritated by a reiteration, on the part of the examiner, of the words, "And then?" furiously thundered out, having lost patience utterly, "Blast her, let her drive!" I would like to tell the story, but am afraid Mrs. Halibut might think it profane.

Mr. Halibut tells us we are drifting with the tide, and that he is afraid we shall have to cast anchor, and spend the night on board. There is a tent below, which the gentlemen can pitch on the neighboring beach, and leave the cabin for the occupation of the ladies.

This is unexpected. I prefer a hairmattress to a mossy couch, but do not say so. The ladies seem pleased with the proposition. The boys and Guy are overjoyed. I pretend to like it.

We drop anchor, and lie floating idly on the surface of the bay, the swift tide drifting past us. The shore is near, stretching out a long line of warm red

feet high, stunted evergreens are growing, and wiry grasses cling in the crannies of its walks, and blue hare-bells are waving gracefully among them, as we can see plainly with the skipper's glass.

"That is Pulpit Rock," says Lasella. "At high-water you can only see the top, like a little island rising from the bay; but now, to a good cragsman, the summit would be quite accessible. See how curiously laminated those rocks are; they break off in scales, like slates, and some of them are full of little holes, worn by the falling water before the mass hardened. I believe a geologist would find bird-tracks, or even a footprint of the pre-Adamite man, if he examined them."

"I wonder if the antediluvians held forth here," said Flirtina, meditatively, "and what they preached!"

"Sermons in stones," I suggested. "Let us hope they were not in proportion to the pulpit's size."

"Hallo!" shouts Guy, from the other side of the yacht. "What's this? Look at this canoe coming in. Did you ever see such paddling? Those fellows are in a terrible hurry about something. What magnificent strokes!"

"That looks like Pete Scepsis," says Mr. Halibut, scanning the water from under his hand.

We cross the deck and look eastward. A birch canoe, with two occupants, is coming swiftly towards us, impelled by vigorous arms to a wonderful speed, which, as it nears the yacht, is slackened gradually, until the fragile craft floats like a withered leaf towards us, and two brown hands are put forth to catch our vessel's side and prevent any collision, which might be fatal to the delicate bark.

In the stern sits a broad-shouldered, athletic Indian, with shaggy hair and

His

strongly-marked features, clad in dark trowsers and a red flannel shirt, belted round his waist with a broad leathern belt, from which hangs a sheath of leather containing a dirk-knife. companion is a middle-aged woman, with delicate features, and long black hair which hangs to her waist, and then is gathered at the ends in a loose knot. A calico gown, covered with a bright plaid shawl, confined across the bosom with a huge plate of silver three or four inches in diameter, with a hole in the centre; a man's beaver hat encircled with a silver band, and gayly-worked moccasins, compose her costume.

"Well, Pete," says Mr. Halibut, “how are you? And how is Mrs. Pete?"

"Pretty well," responds the Indian. "Wife he well too;" and he says some words in the native guttural to his squaw, who smiles pleasantly upon the party, but says nothing, as she cannot understand English.

"You seemed in a hurry, just now," continues the skipper. "Where are you bound?"

"Down to Pleasant Point, to see um papoose marry," says Scepsis, briefly.

"Whose papoose?" asks Mrs. Halibut, appearing up the companion-way.

"My boy; he going to get married to the governor's daughter," replies the Indian, with composure. "Have a great

time down there."

"What kind of a girl is she?" asks Mrs. Halibut, interestedly.

"He nice girl," says Scepsis-“ very nice girl-only thirteen-too youngboy he young too. Ought to marry old woman-better for him. She tell um young man."

"A big snake that lives in the water," answers the skipper.

"Me see big snake," says Scepsis. "Never hear of um before. Me no want to see um again. You see um, Halibut? What you think?"

"No, Scepsis," replies that gentleman; "I would like to see him. I have heard a good deal about that fellow. I shall look out sharp for him now."

"He very long," says Scepsis. "He hold his head up like a goose-so," and he bent his arm to show the curve of the reptile's neck. "We see um very plain."

"This is very singular," says the skipper, thoughtfully. "Scepsis is perfectly trustworthy, and has evidently never heard the wonderful tales of the monster."

Further questioning follows, eliciting perfectly consistent answers, and then the Indians loose their hold on the yacht and paddle down-stream, gaining swiftness from the fast-ebbing tide, and we watch them as they glide in their egg-shell craft, and wonder at its lightness and grace.

"That is the perfection of motion," says Lasella, "unless one could fly.

"I come fast over the bay," he continues. "Afraid of the snake."

"What snake?" says Guy, hanging on the shroud to lean over the canoe.

"See um big snake in the water, yesterday," says the Indian. "He chase us half across the bay. He have head big as a man's hat-stick up out of the water. Squaw she frightened; me scared too, so we paddle fast. He

that sensation of stillness and peace which it conveys. I shall never forget an evening on the lakes at the headwaters of this river, when an Indian paddled two of us four miles among the rushes. The water-lilies were just in blossom; and as we dropped our hands in the water, which was warm with the rays of the setting sun, their soft pads brushed our fingers, and the

* This story is entirely authentic.

great sweet white blossoms broke off at a touch. The west was rosy and clear, and all the sky suffused with golden light. It gave one an idea of heavenly bliss."

"I know that well," says Mrs. Halibut. "Who could ever forget those

Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose odors haunt my dreams ?

The night falls, a lovely, calm, glowing evening having preceded it, which has beguiled us into sitting on deck, until the skipper, having finished the furling and covering of the sails, comes aft, and tells us it is time for a light. Thunder and turf! the matches have been forgotten. We hunt our pockets in vain; there is not a stray lucifer in the company; and, feeling about below, we find the lamps are empty. This is very bad. At this point the skipper explodes.

Mrs. Halibut, who is a person of excellent sense and good-humor, adroitly tempers the wrath of her justly indignant spouse.

The young men are to go ashore in the boat and fetch candles from the nearest farm-house, and the shore is only a few hundred yards distant.

Guy and the boys and I row off. It is growing very dark. By the time we find a landing-place, it is difficult to see any thing. We stumble over slippery rocks covered with seaweed-for the tide is down-and then climb a very bushy bank covered with thistles, which prick painfully. Finally we reach the road, and see a light glimmering half a mile off, for which we steer. We find a cottage by the roadside, where we are fortunately able to raise a few tallow dips, with which we regain the shore.

Leaving the others to make the preparations for the night, I row out to the Hurricane, guided by the voices of the ladies singing. They are admiring the phosphorescence of the water, which is gleaming and glowing like a sea of fire. Every dip of the oar scatters a shower of glittering sparks. The jellyfish sail along, like floating flames, upon the surface of the waves

in

There is a buzz and stir below. One by one the ladies come up, showing their several dispositions in the way which they accept this new misfortune, but generally good-tempered, and disposed to make the best of it.

We get breakfast, though the hampers are getting alarmingly empty, and we have no milk for our coffee.

"There's plenty of hard bread and salt junk," says the skipper, "when these provisions give out."

I remember with satisfaction that the shore is accessible.

After breakfast we all row ashore, and wander round for awhile to change the scene, but it is wet, and every thing is sogged with mist, so that it is poor fun; and we go back to the yacht, and sit about in rather a melancholy manner, until some blessed benefactor-I think it was Lasella-produces a pack of cards, and we go below and console ourselves until noon.

We become so much absorbed in our rubbers, that we forget our circumstances, till we are recalled to a sense

of them by a noise on deck and a rattling of the anchor-chain.

I go up, and find that the fog has lifted and the wind is rising, and gray, heavy clouds are drifting rapidly across the heavens, while the black water is crested with foaming white waves.

"It will blow fresh, I think," says the skipper, as he begins to loosen the damp sails, and calls out to the boys to heave up the anchor.

It does blow fresh. There is a stiff southeast wind, and the tide is ebbing, which makes a swell in the bay-a very ugly swell.

A gloom settles upon some members of the party. The swell increases. One or two of the ladies go below. I smoke my pipe. Guy doesn't mind it. He and Flirtina are having a gay conversation. I wonder that I could ever have joked.

The skipper goes down, and reappears in an oil-skin suit and hat.

"It is getting squally," he says. is going to rain."

"It

It does rain. I can't go below in my present state of mind. I stay up, and am wet through. It blows fresher.

"We shall have a bad gale of wind," says the skipper, "but we shall get home ahead of it;" and he has the sails reefed down.

The yacht careens fearfully, and the deck, what with the water from the sea and the rain from the sky, is not much better than a bath-tub. I wish I had not come.

There is an awful crash-an objurgation from the skipper. One of the shrouds has parted. I should like to go ashore.

Flirtina looks a little pale. take the helm?" she asks.

"Shall I

The skipper gives it into her hands, goes forward with Guy, sends the boys below, and rigs some kind of a support to the mast with the halyards.

I am able to be of some use, if the directions do not become too complicated, and if the lines are not called by bewildering names; but you must admit that, in a moment of excitement, it is a little confusing to hear a man say,

"When you can't hoist her up, belay your peak, and haul away on your throat;" and to this moment I can't understand why Bob was told to "take a bite of the rope."

Flirtina holds the helm manfully, and, being brave and strong, does her work well. Two points to round, and we shall be in our own cove. The skipper looks grave, but undismayed.

We scud before the wind, with sails close down. The cabin is well drenched with water, but we have no time for pumping. Ten minutes more, and we catch sight of our own buoy and the beloved shore beyond. We are running hard for our moorings, the skipper at the helm once more. Guy and Jack are in the bow, with the hook ready to catch the buoy as they pass. The skipper puts the helm down one point too far. Jack makes a lunge at the ring, but misses it.

"It has gone under the keel!" cries Guy, in a voice heard above the roar of the wind and the whistling of the ropes. He has missed the buoy!

We are driving straight upon the shore. Before us rises the cliff in a perpendicular, jagged wall, with points of cruel rocks running out directly in

our course.

The skipper's lips grow perfectly white. He crams the helm hard down, and cries, in a voice that is fearful,

"All hands to the main-sheet, for your lives!"

Every body pulls. The wind resists with forty horse-power. Each muscle is strained to the utmost. The boys tumble up the companion-way and haul in on the slack.

There is a moment of awful suspense; then the sheet shortens, the sail shivers, the boom approaches. One more tremendous pull, and we all topple down one upon the other, like a row of ninepins; the great sail swings over with a loud bang, the Hurricane turns her head in obedience to the helm, and we are saved! We pass the sharp rock on the extremity of the point, so near that we could have touched it with an oar, but we escape it fairly.