CHAPTER XXIII 



HOME 



The tourists have been telling me that our village 

 is a pretty place. And they are right. 



It lies at the head of a little bay, nestling at the 

 foot of the steep hills that make a half circle around. 

 The tops of the hills are patched with snow, and 

 the grey slopes are splashed with green, with here 

 and there the colour of wild flowers. The trim white 

 mission house and church, the long line of grey huts 

 at the water's edge, the jetty, in spite of the way in 

 which the freezing sea has bent it and heaved it out 

 of shape all these are very pleasing to the eye, 

 and especially to the eye tired with much travelling. 

 There are leaden days, when the sea is sullen and 

 the air is bleak with rain, when the water drips from 

 the corners of the huts and the village path is slip- 

 pery with mire ; but I am pleased when the tourists 

 come on a fine day, with a bright blue sky and a 

 sparkling sea, so that they may carry away a happy 

 memory of this simple little settlement. 



The main ' ' street ' ' of the village winds along 

 the water line. There is only a narrow path between 

 the houses and the sea, and the tides wash the very 

 doorsteps when the weather is rough. If you walk 

 along the path you have the idea that some of the 

 huts have been trying to elbow their way to the 

 front between their neighbours, so close packed 



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