"BEING FLOWERS. 271 



the still waters of the bay. The scene was very 

 beautiful. 



Half an hour's slow sailing brought us to the 

 opposite shore, where my passengers debarked. 

 L ae/ompanied them to the burying-ground near 

 by. Here the flowers each had brought were 

 strewn over the graves of departed relatives and 

 friends. The mounds and tombstones were nicely 

 cleared of all rubbish, and their floral offerings 

 were placed at the head and feet. 



As the maidens, in their white and flowing dra- 

 pery, glided noiselessly yet cheerfully from grave 

 to grave, doing kind offices to the resting places 

 of their friends, and scattering beautiful flowers 

 over their remains, they seemed like a chorus of 

 blest spirits come down to summon loved ones 

 to their homes. Occasionally a low sob or wail 

 from some mourner for the recently departed, 

 would break upon the ear, but otherwise all was 

 silent as the graves we wandered amid. 



In looking among the mounds by which the 

 whole surface of the old cemetery was broken, I 

 came upon a rude wooden cross, worm eaten and 

 weather beaten, fast mingling its dust with his 

 who lay below. Upon the horizontal piece were 

 ent in rude letters, probably done with a sailor'i 

 jack-knife, the words, 



Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling." 



It was the last resting place of some poor 

 weather-beaten sailor who had found here, far 



