A FAIRY POOL—WONDERS OF THE DEEP—PORTRAIT OF A POET—THE CAVE OF FAUCONNAIRE—A LETTER FROM HOME AND MY ANSWER TO IT.

As the weather towards the end of winter was very uncertain, I did but little boat-fishing, except on very fine days, when the sea was fairly calm, and I had a longing for a certain kind of fish. At such times I would embark for an hour or two, and rarely came home empty-handed.

Crabs and lobsters I soon got tired of, and I think most people who could eat their fill of them for the mere catching would do the same; but a nice sole or slice of turbot takes a long time to satiate one's appetite.

Although little could be done in the garden or field during the winter days I was never idle; that is, I never indulged in lying in bed or letting the time slip dreamily by, so as to induce the belief that I was enjoying myself. No, that would not suit me at all, for my disposition was to be ever on the go—seeing, hearing, or trying to learn something. Thus I knew almost every rock and cranny round the island, as I was always poking and ogling into odd crannies and pools to see what I could discover. Among my favourite places was the Fauconnaire, which being surrounded at every tide, was always having fresh life and vegetation brought to it by the ever-moving sea.

There were many pools and wonderful little caves round this curious, conical island, of which I knew, and into whose recesses I loved to pry; and although I visited them frequently they seemed ever new to me.

There was, facing due east, a large mass of rock near the foot of the Fauconnaire, upon which I often sat on a calm day, looking down into the mysteries of the sea. The water was so wonderfully clear, that at a depth of twenty feet I could see every pebble and bunch of weed as plainly as if only a sheet of glass hid them from view. This was to me very remarkable, as on the sandy east coast of England, an object two or three feet beneath the surface is hidden from the eye by the discolouration of the water, caused by the sand and soft clay cliffs. Here I could look down at one of the most lovely gardens the eye of man ever rested upon.

It was a wonderfully diversified collection of marine plants of all sizes, shapes, and colours; in fact, a perfect marine paradise. The colours embraced every hue of green, from the pale tint of a cut cucumber to the darkest shade of bronze, merging upon blackness. The yellow plants embraced every tint of yellow and orange imaginable, while the pinks ran the whole gamut of shades of that colour.

The forms and sizes of this enchanting garden of flowers without blossom were as varied as the colours. On the rocky slopes adhered tiny anemonÆ; lower down were other bushy weeds growing in all forms and positions, while further away in the deeper water rose up great feathery fronds and waving arms, like the tentacles of some giant octopus feeling for its prey. This bed of snake-like brown arms was a weird spot, which only wanted a mermaid or two to make it complete; but I, as a mere man, could only complete the picture by magnifying in my mind's eye the innumerable fishes which swam in and out among the luxuriance of marine vegetation, so as to fancy them mermaidens, and thus people this wonderful water palace.

The fish sometimes came along in shoals, principally the spotted rock-fish, which seemed to be painted by nature to resemble the colours of the surrounding rocks, stones, and sea-weed. Sometimes they would appear singly, swimming hurriedly, just giving the leaves a pat with their tails, as if closing the door behind them. These seemed to be messengers, for presently others of a larger size would come along more leisurely, as if to clear the way, and in a short time would appear quite a shoal of these beautiful fish of all sizes, forming a procession, as if they had some kind of carnival or festival afoot, and were making the most of the day.

What a spot for a poet to muse in! How he could roll his azure eyes and comb out his locks with his lily-white taper fingers, and gaze into space for a word to rhyme! How he would wrinkle his lofty brow, compress his cupidon upper lip, and unloose his negligÉ necktie, to give room for his bosom to swell with pride at the enchanting poem which would, at the picture before him, be sure to flow from the tip of his pretty little golden stylographic pen! At least this is how I fancy a poet must act, but never having seen one of those wonderful beings at work, I have, like the said poet, to get my picture from the source of some of his best work—the imagination.

But a truce to badinage. True poetry is not a thing to laugh at and disdain, for it is the salt of life, which makes existence endurable, and gives a savour to our worldly toil.

Pierce, a modern poet, hits off the shores of Jethou capitally, thus:

At low tide—or rather, at half tide—may be seen a huge square-headed fissure or cave quite through a portion of La Fauconnaire. Its sides are walls of granite, and the roof is also of that stone, from ten to twelve feet high on the average, but much more in parts. Although daylight is admitted at each end of this tunnel it is somewhat gloomy in the centre, which perhaps adds to its charms, as objects are seen less clearly, thus giving more scope to the imagination, of which daylight is frequently a great destroyer. Semi-gloom causes one to speculate upon things which, seen in the broad glare of day, have nothing of mystery or wonder about them; they are but too evident to the eye. A grammar-school education does not permit of great descriptive flights, or this cavern would be for me an exquisite theme upon which to write a chapter on fairyland.

The walls of this vaulted chamber sparkled from the constant dripping of water, which appeared to ooze from the sides and roof as the tide went down; but what appeared most noticeable was the pink hue of these walls, which upon closer inspection appeared to be lined with a kind of coral, or some such substance, while here and there from roof and walls depended most lovely fern-like sea-weed, whose long fronds waved gracefully in the grateful breeze which came in from the south end in puffs, just enough to stir the glorious pool of water covering the whole floor of the cave. The chamber is not very wide, probably not more than from four to five feet, so that the pool on the floor forms a miniature lake of surpassing beauty, some forty or fifty feet long, and from one to two feet deep; but the contents and the arrangement of that pool who shall describe? In this small space may be found animal and vegetable life of all kinds, anemonÆ, lovely weeds, zoophytes, curious fish, sponges, shells, coral, and a hundred other things, all in such perfection and orderly wildness that no artificial aquarium can ever hope to present, for they are made by hands, and can never vie with Nature in the formation of the wild and picturesque aspect of these rocky pools.

As the sea filled this cave at every tide there was always something new for me to admire whenever I made a visit, and my only regret was that I could not take it home with me if I should be spared to see Norfolk again.

Now to proceed a little further with my narrative.

Christmas was a time which I knew not how to fill up. I wanted to be jolly and to make some festive difference in the usual routine of my daily life and fare, but with no companion I found it a very difficult task, even to make myself believe it really was Christmas time.

I made a plum pudding which had scarcely the consistence to hang together when I rolled it out of the cloth; but that mattered little, as a broken pudding required less muscular activity for the jaws. The main point was the flavour; it was not at all bad. Tinned beef, potatoes, tomatoes, a cauliflower, a rabbit pie, walnuts, and apples formed my Christmas dinner, which was washed down by a bottle of Bass I had reserved as a special Christmas treat. I drank the health of my absent friends, and even gave three cheers for the King of Jethou—myself.

To make the season appear as Christmassy as possible I cudgelled my brain for a whole week, and composed what I am pleased to call

Although the lines seemed to go very well, I had great difficulty in hitting upon a suitable tune; but when once I did fit the verses to a composition of my own, I howled it from morning till night all over the island. The very animals and birds must have been satiated with it. Possibly they would gladly have exchanged Christmas for Easter, or some other church festival, just for the sake of variety and change of tune.

One misty morning at the end of February, I was standing near the old cannon, chopping firewood wherewith to heat my oven, for it was my weekly baking day, when I saw a boat containing two men coming through the CreviÇhon channel towards the house. One was pulling, and the other, who sat in the stern sheets, waved a white flag or handkerchief upon a stick, to attract my attention. I noticed them as soon as they did me, and waved in return, making signs for them not to land.

With my chopping hook still in my hand I ran down the rocky path towards them, and arrived at the water's edge just as they were about to run the boat ashore. I did not know what their intention in landing might be, so shook the chopper at them to warn them off. My stature, and the sight of my bare right arm, had their due effect, for they sheered off, a few boats' lengths, much to my relief. I soon found, however, that they were two of the men of Herm on a very peaceful mission, as they simply came to deliver a letter to me which a boat had brought over from St. Peter Port. I dare not speak, or could have asked them their mission, and they seemed quite dumbfounded at my bellicose attitude towards them.

The man in the stern now held up the letter, upon which I pantomimically intimated my wish that he should come close in and throw the letter to me. I then, lest they should be afraid to approach, threw my chopper as far behind me as I could, sending it clattering among the boulders nearly up to the cliff. Then the man in the stern folded the letter in two, and tied a piece of spun yarn round it, to which he attached a piece of stone, and tossed it to me. It fell fluttering near me, and I was almost afraid to pick it up, for fear it might contain some bad news of my family; but stooping, I secured it, placing it in my shirt bosom. Then by signs I expressed my thanks to the kind Hermese who had brought the missive.

When they had pulled out of sight towards Herm I sat down on a rock, and very mistrustfully drew forth the crumpled envelope. Was my father dead? What of Priscilla? Was mother ailing? These and a hundred other questions flashed across my mind as I slowly broke open the envelope. It was a letter from my dear old dad. Short, but quite assuring it ran:

"My Dear Boy,

"All is well. On the 2nd of March you will have occupied Jethou just twelve months. Some of my Yarmouth friends say I am cruel to allow you to stay alone so long, and think you must be so broken down by your exile, that nothing would keep you in Jethou six months longer. Young Johnson has even gone so far as to say he would wager you one hundred pounds you dare not stay another six months, and I therefore write to make known his offer, which I have in black and white, duly signed by him.

"Write me the word, YES or NO, only.

"Your affectionate Father,

"WILLIAM K. NILFORD."

What a curious letter from my father after all these months! Not a word as to himself, mother, or Priscilla. Not a line of news except the first three words, "All is well." That was assuring, at any rate, and made me feel happy. Young Johnson was the squire's son, a dashing, go-ahead fellow, but not greatly liked in the village, by reason of his haughtiness.

Although I had been looking forward to my return home I would not go to be laughed at by our Yarmouth friends; no, I would stay at all risks, and with the one hundred pounds I could make my future bride, Priscilla, a grand present. Yes, my mind was made up at once, and if the men had been within hail they might have come back and received my answer to send over to the St. Peter Port post office, from which the packet would take it to England, so that in about three or four days my father would receive it.

My answer was quickly written, for my reply was very laconic:

"February 28th, 18—.

"My Dear Father,

"All is well. I accept Johnson's wager of one hundred pounds, that I do not occupy Jethou for another six months.

"Your affectionate Son,

"HARRY NILFORD."

About noon I espied two men fishing off the nearest point of Herm, and going to the north-east corner of my island, to the promontory guarding Lobster Bay, I signalled them with a handkerchief upon an ash sapling. They soon saw the signal and pulled towards me. As they neared me I was pleased to find they were the same two men who brought my father's letter to me in the morning. They came close into the bay, so that I had only to lean down and drop the letter into the boat, pointing towards St. Peter Port to signify I wanted it to go there by the first boat going.

"Oui, trÈs bien."

Then I dropped half a crown (three francs) into their boat, and away they pulled, quite pleased. I went about my work, but in about twenty minutes, looking towards Guernsey, I saw the two men pulling away to St. Peter Port with my letter. This was more than I expected, as it would give them a rough pull of six miles. I only meant them to take the letter to Herm; but away it went, and a day was saved.

Away to my digging. I returned and forgot all about the men and the letter, but to my astonishment about four hours after, they hailed me, shouting and gesticulating, "C'est juste," they cried, and then away they went home, and I saw them no more.

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