ying long,
stout staffs. Mixed up in their conversation I caught the names of
royalty, then of celebrities great, and artists famous--warriors,
orators, philanthropists and musicians. Could it be possible that these
rustics were poets? It must be so. And there came to me thoughts of
Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Joaquin Miller, and all that sublime company of
singers in shirt-sleeves.

Suddenly the wind veered and the veil fell; all the sacred names so
freely bandied about were those of "families" with mighty milk-records.

When we went on board and the good ship was slipping down The Solent, I
made the acquaintance of these men and was regaled with more cow-talk
than I had heard since I left Texas.

We saw the island of Portsea, where Dickens was born, and got a glimpse
of the spires of Portsmouth as we passed; then came the Isle of Wight and
the quaint town of Cowes. I made a bright joke on the latter place as it
was pointed out to me by my Jersey friend, but it went for naught.

A pleasant sail of eight hours and the towering cliffs of Guernsey came
in sight. Foam-dashed and spray-covered they rise right out of the sea at
the south, to the height of two hundred seventy feet. About them great
flocks of sea-fowl hover, swirl and soar. Wild, rugged and romantic is
the scene.

The Isle of Guernsey is nine miles long and six wide. Its principal town
is Saint Peter Port, a place of about sixteen thousand inhabitants, where
a full dozen hotel porters meet the incoming steamer and struggle for
your baggage.

Hotels and boarding-houses here are numerous and good. Guernsey is a
favorite resort for invalids and those who desire to flee the busy world
for a space. In fact, the author of "Les Miserables" has made exile
popular.

Emerging from my hotel at Saint Peter Port I was accosted by a small
edition of Gavroche, all in tatters, who proposed showing me the way to
Hauteville House for a penny. I already knew the route, but accepted the
offer on Gavroche's promise to reveal to me a secret about the place.
The secret is this: The house is haunted, and when the wind is east, and
the setting moon shows only a narrow rim above the rocks, ghosts come and
dance a solemn minuet on the glass roof above the study.

Had Gavroche ever seen them? No, but he knew a boy who had. Years and
years--ever so many years ago--long before there were any steamboats, and
when only a schooner came to Guernsey once a week, a woman was murdered
in Hau