As we drop down along the shore, there is a purple sea-gull asleep onthe rock, rolled up in a ball, with his head under his wing. Therock is dripping with dew, and the bird is as wet as his hard bed.We pass within an oar's length of him, but he does not heed us, andwe do not disturb his morning slumbers. For there is no such crueltyas the waking of anybody out of a morning nap.

When we land, and take up our bags to ascend the hill to the yellowtavern of Port Hastings (as Plaster Cove now likes to be called), thesun lifts himself slowly over the treetops, and the magic of thenight vanishes.