for the sea never was still there. It
was as though the bush and all that dwelt therein held its breath,
waiting, waiting for a portent; and, meantime, watching me. In a few
moments I found myself also waiting, conscious of each breath I drew.
It was not so much eerie as solemn. Yes, I think it was the solemnity
of that bush which so impressed me, and for the time so humbled me.

A few moments later and the kindly brightness of the new-risen sun was
glinting between tree-trunks, the bush began to breathe naturally, and
I was off at a trot for my morning dabble in the surf.

My father and I made but a poor show as housekeepers that day. I
suppose we neither of us had ever washed a plate, or even boiled a
kettle. In all such matters of what may be called outdoor domesticity
(as in the use of such primitive and all-round serviceable tools as
the axe), the Colonial-born man has a great advantage over his Home-born
kinsman, in that he acquires proficiency in these matters almost
as soon and quite as naturally as he learns to walk and talk. And not
otherwise can the sane easy mastery of things be acquired.

My father had some admirably sound theories about cooking. He had
knowledge enough most heartily to despise the Frenchified menus which,
I believe, were coming into vogue in London when we left it, and
warmly to appreciate the sterling virtue of good English cookery and
food. The basic aim in genuine English cookery is the conservation of
the natural flavours and essences of the food cooked. And, since sound
English meats and vegetables are by long odds the finest in the world,
there could be no better purpose in cooking than this. Subtle methods
and provocative sauces, which give their own distinctive flavour to
the dishes in which they are used, are well enough for less favoured
lands than England, and a much-needed boon, no doubt. They are a
wasteful mistake in England, or were, at all events, so long as
unadulterated English food was available.

My father taught me these truths long ago, and I am an implicit
believer in them to-day. All his theories about such matters were
sound; and it may be that, in a properly appointed kitchen, he could
have turned out an excellent good meal--given the right mood for the
task. But I will admit that in Livorno Bay, both on this our first day
alone there, and ever afterwards, my father's only attempts at
domestic work were of the most sketchy and least satisfactory
description; h