FAR AND NEAR 



up on deck in the morning, I caught my first sight 

 of tropic seas, — emerald, indigo, violet, blending 

 and shifting there over the surface of the placid 

 water, and suggesting some realm of fable and 

 romance. 



What are those white birds that go in loose flocks, 

 skimming the surface of the water, then suddenly 

 disappearing ? a snowbird where snow never falls ? 

 Then, as more appear, it suddenly dawns upon me 

 that I am seeing my first flying-fish. No bird has 

 such a strenuous, machine-hke flight as that. I am 

 on the shady side of the ship, and the afternoon sun, 

 falling upon the winged fishes, makes them, against 

 the deep blue of the sea, appear almost snow white. 

 Every few minutes, one or two, or a dozen, would 

 suddenly break from the water and go spinning away 

 from the ship as straight as arrows, striking the water 

 again several hundred feet away. It is not the fiight 

 of a bird but of a toy machine, something wound up 

 and, if rightly launched, calculated to go fifty or one 

 hundred yards in a right line. It is a tour de force. 

 There is no freedom or mastery in it as in a bird's 

 flight. It reminds one of the excursions of certain 

 persons into poetry, — my own, for instance. How 

 determined it is ! but how restricted and mechanical ! 

 Sometimes the flyer would suddenly collapse after a 

 few feet, as if it had not launched itself at just the 

 right angle. Often it would cut through the crests 

 of the small waves, never swerving from a right 



