ees is a rustling of the water from below where the outgoing tide
from the river meets the water of the harbour; and mingled with that,
one can just faintly catch the hushed sound of an occasional wave on
the rocks. It is a holiday with the breakers, and the sea moves its
fringe as gently as if fanning itself to sleep. The river winds around
below, and down to its edge the hills are tree-covered--not there
altogether with pines, but with rounded luxurious clumps of dark
trees, recalling Dore's idea of a forest--they are exactly Dore's
trees. It does not look from here as if the river went up farther, but
around that bend is the deep green water called Drake's Pool. It was
there that Admiral Drake, outnumbered and chased along the Irish coast
by the Spanish fleet, hid from them. The Spaniards came into the
harbour and searched around, but never thought there was an opening
through the trees. And there Drake waited with his high-pooped ships
until they went away. Close to the trees that grow around the steep
margin of the pool and always darken the green water, even in daytime,
fishermen who go there at night to fish for conger tell that when the
moon has been clouded at midnight they have seen the shapes of
queer-looking ships, and on their high sterns the forms of men in
outlandish costumes, sitting around drinking.

Right on the summit of this hill which commands the harbour is the
Giant's Grave; and _a propos_ of commanding the harbour, Napoleon I.
knew of it, and had a plan for the invasion of Ireland, in which was
included the idea of occupying this hill, from which he could command
from the rear the forts at the harbour's mouth. He would have planted
his guns on the Giant's Grave. We know little of the history of that
giant, except that he carried off the wife of another giant who lived
on the Great Island opposite, and held her here in his fastness amid
the pine trees against all efforts to wrest her from him. A huge rock
that he hurled back in one of these fights is still to be seen on the
shore of Spike Island.

A twittering flutter of white and grey below me a few yards away. It
is a rabbit--and now another. Their ears are cocked, but they do not
appear to notice me in the least. They hop about quite noiselessly on
the brown carpet. The crowing of a cock in the distance seems almost
musical, and there is some insect in the tree above me that appears to
be trying to give an imitation of a telegraph instrument.