than a highway in a busy city,
and by all odds less dangerous. But to any one contemplating the
voyage I would say, beware of reefs day or night, or, remaining on the
land, be wary still.

"The _Spray_ came flying into port like a bird," said the longshore
daily papers of Cooktown the morning after she arrived; "and it seemed
strange," they added, "that only one man could be seen on board
working the craft." The _Spray_ was doing her best, to be sure, for it
was near night, and she was in haste to find a perch before dark.

[Illustration: The _Spray_ leaving Sydney, Australia, in, the new suit
of sails given by Commodore Foy of Australia. (From a photograph.)]

Tacking inside of all the craft in port, I moored her at sunset nearly
abreast the Captain Cook monument, and next morning went ashore to
feast my eyes on the very stones the great navigator had seen, for I
was now on a seaman's consecrated ground. But there seemed a question
in Cooktown's mind as to the exact spot where his ship, the
_Endeavor_, hove down for repairs on her memorable voyage around the
world. Some said it was not at all at the place where the monument now
stood. A discussion of the subject was going on one morning where I
happened to be, and a young lady present, turning to me as one of some
authority in nautical matters, very flatteringly asked my opinion.
Well, I could see no reason why Captain Cook, if he made up his mind
to repair his ship inland, couldn't have dredged out a channel to the
place where the monument now stood, if he had a dredging-machine with
him, and afterward fill it up again; for Captain Cook could do 'most
anything, and nobody ever said that he hadn't a dredger along. The
young lady seemed to lean to my way of thinking, and following up the
story of the historical voyage, asked if I had visited the point
farther down the harbor where the great circumnavigator was murdered.
This took my breath, but a bright school-boy coming along relieved my
embarrassment, for, like all boys, seeing that information was wanted,
he volunteered to supply it. Said he: "Captain Cook wasn't murdered
'ere at all, ma'am; 'e was killed in Hafrica: a lion et 'im."

Here I was reminded of distressful days gone by. I think it was in
1866 that the old steamship _Soushay_, from Batavia for Sydney, put in
at Cooktown for scurvy-grass, as I always thought, and "incidentally"
to land mails. On her sick-list was my fevered self; and so I didn't
see th