porpoises. On the sands they had horses waiting, which dragged
the casks up the steep street of the little town with a fine rush

and clatter and scramble. When the last cask was in, we went and
refreshed and rested, and sat late into the night, drinking with

our friends, and next morning I took to the great olive-woods for
a spell and a rest. For now I had done with islands for the

time, and ports and shipping were plentiful; so I led a lazy life
among the peasants, lying and watching them work, or stretched

high on the hillside with the blue Mediterranean far below me.
And so at length, by easy stages, and partly on foot, partly by

sea, to Marseilles, and the meeting of old shipmates, and the
visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting once more.

Talk of shell-fish! Why, sometimes I dream of the shell-fish of
Marseilles, and wake up crying!'

`That reminds me,' said the polite Water Rat; `you happened to
mention that you were hungry, and I ought to have spoken earlier.

Of course, you will stop and take your midday meal with me? My
hole is close by; it is some time past noon, and you are very

welcome to whatever there is.'
`Now I call that kind and brotherly of you,' said the Sea Rat.

`I was indeed hungry when I sat down, and ever since I
inadvertently happened to mention shell-fish, my pangs have been

extreme. But couldn't you fetch it along out here? I am none
too fond of going under hatches, unless I'm obliged to; and then,

while we eat, I could tell you more concerning my voyages and the
pleasant life I lead--at least, it is very pleasant to me, and by

your attention I judge it commends itself to you; whereas if we
go indoors it is a hundred to one that I shall presently fall

asleep.'
`That is indeed an excellent suggestion,' said the Water Rat, and

hurried off home. There he got out the luncheon-basket and
packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin

and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French
bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which

lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein
lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes.

Thus laden, he returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure
at the old seaman's commendations of his taste and judgment, as

together they unpacked the basket and laid out the contents
on the grass by the roadside.

The Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged,
continued the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple

hearer from port to port of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, Oporto,
and Bordeaux, introducing him to the pleasant harbours of

Cornwall and Devon, and so up the Channel to that final quayside,
where, landing after winds long contrary, storm-driven and

weather-beaten, he had caught the first magical hints and
heraldings of another Spring, and, fired by these, had sped on a

long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on some
quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea.

Spell-bound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed
the Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through

crowded roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up
winding rivers that hid their busy little towns round a sudden

turn; and left him with a regretful sigh planted at his dull
inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing.

By this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and
strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a

brightness that seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon,
filled his glass with the red and glowing vintage of the South,

and, leaning towards the Water Rat, compelled his gaze and held
him, body and soul, while he talked. Those eyes were of the

changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping Northern seas; in
the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the

South, beating for him who had courage to respond to its
pulsation. The twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast

red, mastered the Water Rat and held him bound, fascinated,
powerless. The quiet world outside their rays receded far away

and ceased to be. And the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on--or
was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into song--chanty

of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the
shrouds in a tearing North-Easter, ballad of the fisherman

hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of
guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique? Did it change into

the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrilyshrill as it
freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical

trickle of air from the leech of the bellying sail? All
these sounds the spell-bound listener seemed to hear, and

with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the
soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting

shingle. Back into speech again it passed, and with beating
heart he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the

fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant
undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in

still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand. Of deep-sea
fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile-

long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless
night, or the tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead

through the fog; of the merry home-coming, the headland rounded,
the harbour lights opened out; the groups seen dimly on the quay,

the cheery hail, the splash of the hawser; the trudge up the
steep little street towards the comforting glow of red-curtained

windows.
Lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the Adventurer

had risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him
fast with his sea-grey eyes.

`And now,' he was softlysaying, `I take to the road again,
holding on southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at

last I reach the little grey sea town I know so well, that clings
along one steep side of the harbour. There through dark doorways

you look down flights of stone steps, overhung by great pink
tufts of valerian and ending in a patch of sparkling blue water.

The little boats that lie tethered to the rings and stanchions of
the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those I clambered in and

out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the flood tide,
schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and

foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and
day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. There,

sooner or later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and
there, at its destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go

its anchor. I shall take my time, I shall tarry and bide, till
at last the right one lies waiting for me, warped out into

midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down harbour. I
shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one

morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the
clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain

coming merrily in. We shall break out the jib and the
foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly

past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have
begun! As she forges towards the headland she will clothe

herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of
great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing South!

`And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass,
and never return, and the South still waits for you. Take the

Adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes!'
'Tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step

forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new! Then
some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when

the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit
down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for

company. You can easily overtake me on the road, for you are
young, and I am ageing and go softly. I will linger, and look