210 IN THE GREEN LEAF 



It is moonlight on the waters, a summer sea 

 as they call it, just enough to send the craft 

 along in a smooth fashion towards port, for the 

 small fleet of boats is homeward bound from 

 open water. Not even the curlew's whistle is 

 to be heard, for these birds have not left their 

 moorland haunts yet to visit the tide. There 

 is no sound but the lip and lap of the waters 

 round the piles at the base of the long sea- 

 wall, that winds and twists like some monstrous 

 form, and vanishes in the distance. The marsh- 

 lands that the wall protects show as one vast 

 flat of silver-grey, obscured in places by float- 

 ing fogs from stagnant lagoons. 



But seawards all is bright and fair ; small 

 patches of light show about the size of a table- 

 cover, and the water where those patches show 

 is one long line of molten silver. The fleet is 

 making the mouth of the harbour creek. To 

 one not acquainted with the locality of this net- 

 work of waterways, as dangerous now as it was 

 in the past, it all looks like open water ; but 

 there are sudden bends where great arms of the 

 sea rush up, miles inland, to the safe harbours 

 of fishing towns. 



It is remarkable how far you can hear sounds 

 on the water, or borne on it at night. As we 



