ON THE COAST OF ARE AN 61 



either eaten or scented on the wind ; we watch 

 the Campbelton steamer put off passengers in a 

 tossing cockle-shell of a boat, and, also much to 

 our amusement, tumble empty herring-boxes 

 into the sea, to be picked up at leisure by the 

 fishermen of the village; then some of our 

 young fellows bathe, and while they stand on 

 the shore in puris naturalibus, myself and the 

 Critic hold debate as to whether the forked 

 radish looks taller with or without its habilitory 

 environments. Finally, in the cool of the even- 

 ing, we walk back our eight or nine miles to 

 Corrie, and startle the quiet village with a part- 

 ing chorus before we turn in for the night. 



