of rat-haunted drains, no slimy and scraggy wall runs out, to mar the

meeting of sweet and salt. With one or two mooring posts to watch it,

and a course of stepping-stones, the brook slides into the peaceful bay,

and is lost in larger waters. Even so, however, it is kindly still, for

it forms a tranquil haven.

Because, where the ruffle of the land stream merges into the heavier

disquietude of sea, slopes of shell sand and white gravel give welcome

pillow to the weary keel. No southerly tempest smites the bark, no long

groundswell upheaves her; for a bold point, known as the "Haven-head,"

baffles the storm in the offing, while the bulky rollers of a strong

spring-tide, that need no wind to urge them, are broken by the shifting

of the shore into a tier of white-frilled steps. So the deep-waisted

smacks that fish for many generations, and even the famous "London

trader" (a schooner of five-and-forty tons), have rest from their

labors, whenever they wish or whenever they can afford it, in the

arms of the land, and the mouth of the water, and under the eyes of

Springhaven.

At the corner of the wall, where the brook comes down, and pebble turns

into shingle, there has always been a good white gate, respected (as a

white gate always is) from its strong declaration of purpose. Outside

of it, things may belong to the Crown, the Admiralty, Manor, or Trinity

Brethren, or perhaps the sea itself--according to the latest ebb or

flow of the fickle tide of Law Courts--but inside that gate everything

belongs to the fine old family of Darling.

Concerning the origin of these Darlings divers tales are told, according

<<BackPagesTo menuNext>>