roness
Burdett-Coutts's yacht that was there at the time. I asked Tim about
the money she had lent to the men there for buying fishing-boats.
"Ah, thin, she's a good woman, God bless her; there's many rich or
well-to-do men in Baltimore to-day through the means of her, an' ivery
penny paid back--divil a penny av a bad debt."

[Illustration: Relief Of Pekin.]

The smaller the boat the greater the delight of sailing; you get
closer to things than in big boats. It is part of yourself, half in
the sea and half in the air, and with the sea and breezes you play or
fight. White sails standing patiently upright, waiting, and adown from
over the hills comes along the breath of the wind, breathing across
the mirror; gently, ripplingly, comes the wind to play, and would try
to pass, but you catch it in your white wings--catch it and hold it,
leaning over to its fleeing passage, and press the trembling
tiller-pulse, now throbbing with life, and luff as the boat darts
forward in joy of possession of the wind, but she passes, gently,
gently up again with the tiller till she leaves the sails with the
lingerage of a caress.

But more fun is the fight and tussle in that wonderful surface
fighting-line between sea and wind, which laugh as they fight, blowing
and buffeting, with you between and the little boat-part of you, now
intensely alive and glad like you to be alive, to sing back to the
wind any old song as she passes her fingers through your hair.

One unique sensation of the almost uncanny mingling of the two
elements I can never forget, when once, at daybreak, I went down into
the Cave of the Winds under Niagara Falls; on along the slippery path,
the spray streaming down the oilskins; within a few feet that
shimmering, glistening wall of falling water, the sense of hearing
gone in intoxication, of most musically thunderous noise. One seemed
breathing water, so finely spray-saturated was the air. One seemed to
have passed the portals into a strange, eerie, watery world.

Every moment the wind came up, piping louder and louder, scudding
across the now darkening water. The entrance to Oyster Haven was only
half a mile on. It was too far to go to Kinsale. The Old Head was
invisible in blue-grey mist.

How things find voice in music! I recollect in the climax of the fight
at Elandslaagte, when the uproar of various sounds was simply
terrific, from the shrill treble of the whimpering bullets to the
trumpet-like whoop of the she