318 THE CEUISE OF THE " CACHALOT:' 



path of rational enjoyment for tlie sailor ashore. Keturn- 

 ing to that happy day, I remember vividly how, just 

 after we got clear of the town, we were tuTning down a 

 lane between hedgerows wonderfully like one of our own 

 country roads, when something — I could not tell what — 

 gripped my heart and sent a lump into my throat. 

 Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes, and I trembled from 

 head to foot with emotion. Whatever could it be ? 

 Bewildered for the moment, I looked around, and saw a 

 hedge laden with white hawthorn blossom, the sweet 

 English " may." Every Londoner knows how strongly 

 that beautiful scent appeals to him, even when wafted 

 from draggled branches borne slumwards by tramping 

 urchins who have been far afield despoiling the trees of 

 their lovely blossoms, careless of the damage they have 

 been doing. But to me, who had not seen a bit for years, 

 the flood of feeling, undammed by that odorous breath, 

 was overwhelming. I could hardly tear myself away 

 from the spot, and, when at last I did, found myself 

 continually turning to try and catch another whiff of one 

 of the most beautiful scents in the world. 



Presently we came to a cottage flooded from ground 

 to roof-ridge with blossoms of scarlet geranium. There 

 must have been thousands of them, all borne by one 

 huge stem which was rooted by the door of the house. 

 A little in front of it grew a fuchsia, twelve or fourteen 

 feet high, with wide-spreading branches, likewise loaded 

 with handsome blooms ; while the ground beneath was 

 carpeted with the flowers shaken from their places by 

 the rude wind. 



So, through scenes of loveliness that ajDpealed even 

 to the dusky Kanakas, we trudged gaily along, arriving 

 pretty well fagged at our destination — a great glade of 

 tenderest green, surrounded by magnificent trees on three 



