In the Morning. 363 
the luggers hauled high up on the verge of the 
dismal and deserted parade. 
“ Oh, how wet and cold and gloomy it is in 
England in the morning,” says a childish voice 
beside me. “ Will the sun never come out and 
show us the sea and sky and sailing ships 
again ? ” 
And so she turns away from the fog-blurred 
window ; and we sit beside the fire, look into 
the glowing coals, and think of the morning 
in the far South Seas. 
• • • • © 
A dome of fire, blood-red, springs upward 
from the sleeping sea, and the day has come. 
As the first swift streaks of light shoot through 
the heavy mountain mists hovering above the 
high, densely wooded forest slopes back from 
the beach, the waking wood-pigeons roosting 
in the masaoi trees sound out their morning 
note, answered by the sharp cries of a flock of 
green and gold paroquets as they sweep shore¬ 
ward from the darkened valleys to the sunshine 
of the coast.; a swarm of sooty terns follow, 
with lazily flapping wing, to seek their food 
upon the sea. A conch-shell booms, and the 
native village awakes to life. With sleepy 
