One morning a children’s picnic party was given on a rocky point only accessible at certain states of the tide, whither they were taken in a small boat under the charge of a few hotel servants, and, possibly as part of his heroic treatment, Johnnyboy, who was included in the party, was not allowed to be attended by his regular nurse.

Whether this circumstance added to his general disgust of the whole affair, and his unwillingness to go, I cannot say, but it is to be regretted, since the omission deprived Johnnyboy of any impartial witness to what subsequently occurred. That he was somewhat roughly handled by several of the larger children appeared to be beyond doubt, although there was conflicting evidence as to the sequel. Enough that at noon screams were heard in the direction of certain detached rocks on the point, and the whole party proceeding thither found three of the larger boys on the rocks, alone and cut off by the tide, having been left there, as they alleged, by Johnnyboy, WHO HAD RUN AWAY WITH THE BOAT. They subsequently admitted that THEY had first taken the boat and brought Johnnyboy with them, “just to frighten him,” but they adhered to the rest. And certainly Johnnyboy and the boat were nowhere to be found. The shore was communicated with, the alarm was given, the telegraph, up and down the coast trilled with excitement, other boats were manned—consternation prevailed.

But that afternoon the captain of the “Saucy Jane,” mackerel fisher, lying off the point, perceived a derelict “Whitehall” boat drifting lazily towards the Gulf Stream. On boarding it he was chagrined to find the expected flotsam already in the possession of a very small child, who received him with a scornful reticence as regarded himself and his intentions, and some objurgation of a person or persons unknown. It was Johnnyboy. But whether he had attempted the destruction of the three other boys by “marooning” them upon the rocks—as their parents firmly believed—or whether he had himself withdrawn from their company simply because he did not like them, was never known. Any further attempt to improve his education by the roughing gregarious process was, however, abandoned. The very critics who had counseled it now clamored for restraint and perfect isolation. It was ably pointed out by the Rev. Mr. Belcher that the autocratic habits begotten by wealth and pampering should be restricted, and all intercourse with their possessor promptly withheld.

But the season presently passed with much of this and other criticism, and the Sluysdaels passed too, carrying Johnnyboy and his small aches and long eyelashes beyond these Crustacean voices, where it was to be hoped there was peace. I did not hear of him again for five years, and then, oddly enough, from the lips of Mr. Belcher on the deck of a transatlantic steamer, as he was being wafted to Europe for his recreation by the prayers and purses of a grateful and enduring flock. “Master John Jacob Astor Sluysdael,” said Mr. Belcher, speaking slowly, with great precision of retrospect, “was taken from his private governess—I may say by my advice—and sent to an admirable school in New York, fashioned upon the English system of Eton and Harrow, and conducted by English masters from Oxford and Cambridge. Here—I may also say at my suggestion—he was subjected to the wholesome discipline equally of his schoolmates and his masters; in fact, sir, as you are probably aware, the most perfect democracy that we have yet known, in which the mere accidents of wealth, position, luxury, effeminacy, physical degeneration, and over-civilized stimulation, are not recognized. He was put into compulsory cricket, football, and rounders. As an undersized boy he was subjected to that ingenious preparation for future mastership by the pupillary state of servitude known, I think, as ‘fagging.’ His physical inertia was stimulated and quickened, and his intellectual precocity repressed, from time to time, by the exuberant playfulness of his fellow-students, which occasionally took the form of forced ablutions and corporal discomfort, and was called, I am told, ‘hazing.’ It is but fair to state that our young friend had some singular mental endowments, which, however, were promptly checked to repress the vanity and presumption that would follow.” The Rev. Mr. Belcher paused, closed his eyes resignedly, and added, “Of course, you know the rest.”

“Indeed, I do not,” I said anxiously.

“A most deplorable affair—indeed, a most shocking incident! It was hushed up, I believe, on account of the position of his parents.” He glanced furtively around, and in a lower and more impressive voice said, “I am not myself a believer in heredity, and I am not personally aware that there was a MURDERER among the Sluysdael ancestry, but it seems that this monstrous child, in some clandestine way, possessed himself of a huge bowie-knife, sir, and on one of those occasions actually rushed furiously at the larger boys—his innocent play-fellows—and absolutely forced them to flee in fear of their lives. More than that, sir, a LOADED REVOLVER was found in his desk, and he boldly and shamelessly avowed his intention to eviscerate, or—to use his own revolting language—‘to cut the heart out’ of the first one who again ‘laid a finger on him.’” He paused again, and, joining his two hands together with the fingers pointing to the deck, breathed hard and said, “His instantaneous withdrawal from the school was a matter of public necessity. He was afterwards taken, in the charge of a private tutor, to Europe, where, I trust, we shall NOT meet.”

I could not resist saying cheerfully that, at least, Johnnyboy had for a short time made it lively for the big boys.

The Rev. Mr. Belcher rose slowly, but painfully, said with a deeply grieved expression, “I don’t think that I entirely follow you,” and moved gently away.

The changes of youth are apt to be more bewildering than those of age, and a decade scarcely perceptible in an old civilization often means utter revolution to the new. It did not seem strange to me, therefore, on meeting Jack Bracy twelve years after, to find that he had forgotten Miss Circe, or that SHE had married, and was living unhappily with a middle-aged adventurer by the name of Jason, who was reputed to have had domestic relations elsewhere. But although subjugated and exorcised, she at least was reminiscent. To my inquiries about the Sluysdaels, she answered with a slight return of her old vivacity:—

“Ah, yes, dear fellow, he was one of my greatest admirers.”

“He was about four years old when you knew him, wasn’t he?” suggested Jason meanly. “Yes, they usually WERE young, but so kind of you to recollect them. Young Sluysdael,” he continued, turning to me, “is—but of course you know that disgraceful story.”

I felt that I could stand this no longer. “Yes,” I said indignantly, “I know all about the school, and I don’t call his conduct disgraceful either.”

Jason stared. “I don’t know what you mean about the school,” he returned. “I am speaking of his stepfather.”

“His STEPFATHER!”

“Yes; his father, Van Buren Sluysdael, died, you know—a year after they left Greyport. The widow was left all the money in trust for Johnny, except about twenty-five hundred a year which he was in receipt of as a separate income, even as a boy. Well, a glib-tongued parson, a fellow by the name of Belcher, got round the widow—she was a desperate fool—and, by Jove! made her marry him. He made ducks and drakes of not only her money, but Johnny’s too, and had to skip to Spain to avoid the trustees. And Johnny—for the Sluysdaels are all fools or lunatics—made over his whole separate income to that wretched, fashionable fool of a mother, and went into a stockbroker’s office as a clerk.”

“And walks to business before eight every morning, and they say even takes down the shutters and sweeps out,” broke in Circe impulsively. “Works like a slave all day, wears out his old clothes, has given up his clubs and amusements, and shuns society.”

“But how about his health?” I asked. “Is he better and stronger?”

“I don’t know,” said Circe, “but he LOOKS as beautiful as Endymion.”

At his bank, in Wall Street, Bracy that afternoon confirmed all that Jason had told me of young Sluysdael. “But his temper?” I asked. “You remember his temper—surely.”

“He’s as sweet as a lamb, never quarrels, never whines, never alludes to his lost fortune, and is never put out. For a youngster, he’s the most popular man in the street. Shall we nip round and see him?”

“By all means.”

“Come. It isn’t far.”

A few steps down the crowded street we dived into a den of plate-glass windows, of scraps of paper, of rattling, ticking machines, more voluble and excited than the careworn, abstracted men who leaned over them. But “Johnnyboy”—I started at the familiar name again—was not there. He was at luncheon.

“Let us join him,” I said, as we gained the street again and turned mechanically into Delmonico’s.

“Not there,” said Bracy with a laugh. “You forget! That’s not Johnnyboy’s gait just now. Come here.” He was descending a few steps that led to a humble cake-shop. As we entered I noticed a young fellow standing before the plain wooden counter with a cake of gingerbread in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. His profile was before me; I at once recognized the long lashes. But the happy, boyish, careless laugh that greeted Bracy, as he presented me, was a revelation.

Yet he was pleased to remember me. And then—it may have been embarrassment that led me to such tactlessness, but as I glanced at him and the glass of milk he was holding, I could not help reminding him of the first words I had ever heard him utter.

He tossed off the glass, colored slightly, as I thought, and said with a light laugh:—

“I suppose I have changed a good deal since then, sir.”

I looked at his demure and resolute mouth, and wondered if he had.

YOUNG ROBIN GRAY

The good American barque Skyscraper was swinging at her moorings in the Clyde, off Bannock, ready for sea. But that good American barque—although owned in Baltimore—had not a plank of American timber in her hulk, nor a native American in her crew, and even her nautical “goodness” had been called into serious question by divers of that crew during her voyage, and answered more or less inconclusively with belaying-pins, marlin-spikes, and ropes’ ends at the hands of an Irish-American captain and a Dutch and Danish mate. So much so, that the mysterious powers of the American consul at St. Kentigern had been evoked to punish mutiny on the one hand, and battery and starvation on the other; both equally attested by manifestly false witness and subornation on each side. In the exercise of his functions the consul had opened and shut some jail doors, and otherwise effected the usual sullen and deceitful compromise, and his flag was now flying, on a final visit, from the stern sheets of a smart boat alongside. It was with a feeling of relief at the end of the interview that he at last lifted his head above an atmosphere of perjury and bilge-water and came on deck. The sun and wind were ruffling and glinting on the broadening river beyond the “measured mile”; a few gulls were wavering and dipping near the lee scuppers, and the sound of Sabbath bells, mellowed by a distance that secured immunity of conscience, came peacefully to his ear.

“Now that job’s over ye’ll be takin’ a partin’ dhrink,” suggested the captain.

The consul thought not. Certain incidents of “the job” were fresh in his memory, and he proposed to limit himself to his strict duty.

“You have some passengers, I see,” he said, pointing to a group of two men and a young girl, who had apparently just come aboard.

“Only wan; an engineer going out to Rio. Them’s just his friends seein’ him off, I’m thinkin’,” returned the captain, surveying them somewhat contemptuously.

The consul was a little disturbed. He wondered if the passenger knew anything of the quality and reputation of the ship to which he was entrusting his fortunes. But he was only a PASSENGER, and the consul’s functions—like those of the aloft-sitting cherub of nautical song—were restricted exclusively to looking after “Poor Jack.” However, he asked a few further questions, eliciting the fact that the stranger had already visited the ship with letters from the eminently respectable consignees at St. Kentigern, and contented himself with lingering near them. The young girl was accompanied by her father, a respectably rigid-looking middle-class tradesman, who, however, seemed to be more interested in the novelty of his surroundings than in the movements of his daughter and their departing friend. So it chanced that the consul re-entered the cabin—ostensibly in search of a missing glove, but really with the intention of seeing how the passenger was bestowed—just behind them. But to his great embarrassment he at once perceived that, owing to the obscurity of the apartment, they had not noticed him, and before he could withdraw, the man had passed his arm around the young girl’s half stiffened, yet half yielding figure.

“Only one, Ailsa,” he pleaded in a slow, serious voice, pathetic from the very absence of any youthful passion in it; “just one now. It’ll be gey lang before we meet again. Ye’ll not refuse me now.”

The young girl’s lips seemed to murmur some protest that, however, was lost in the beginning of a long and silent kiss.

The consul slipped out softly. His smile had died away. That unlooked-for touch of human weakness seemed to purify the stuffy and evil-reeking cabin, and the recollection of its brutal past to drop with a deck-load of iniquity behind him to the bottom of the Clyde. It is to be feared that in his unofficial moments he was inclined to be sentimental, and it seemed to him that the good ship Skyscraper henceforward carried an innocent freight not mentioned in her manifest, and that a gentle, ever-smiling figure, not entered on her books, had invisibly taken a place at her wheel.

But he was recalled to himself by a slight altercation on deck. The young girl and the passenger had just returned from the cabin. The consul, after a discreetly careless pause, had lifted his eyes to the young girl’s face, and saw that it was singularly pretty in color and outline, but perfectly self-composed and serenely unconscious. And he was a little troubled to observe that the passenger was a middle-aged man, whose hard features were already considerably worn with trial and experience.

Both he and the girl were listening with sympathizing but cautious interest to her father’s contention with the boatman who had brought them from shore, and who was now inclined to demand an extra fee for returning with them. The boatman alleged that he had been detained beyond “kirk time,” and that this imperiling of his salvation could only be compensated by another shilling. To the consul’s surprise, this extraordinary argument was recognized by the father, who, however, contented himself by simply contending that it had not been stipulated in the bargain. The issue was, therefore, limited, and the discussion progressed slowly and deliberately, with a certain calm dignity and argumentative satisfaction on both sides that exalted the subject, though it irritated the captain.

“If ye accept the premisses that I’ve just laid down, that it’s a contract”–began the boatman.

“Dry up! and haul off,” said the captain.

“One moment,” interposed the consul, with a rapid glance at the slight trouble in the young girl’s face. Turning to the father, he went on: “Will you allow me to offer you and your daughter a seat in my boat?”

It was an unlooked-for and tempting proposal. The boatman was lazily lying on his oars, secure in self-righteousness and the conscious possession of the only available boat to shore; on the other hand, the smart gig of the consul, with its four oars, was not only a providential escape from a difficulty, but even to some extent a quasi-official endorsement of his contention. Yet he hesitated.

“It’ll be costin’ ye no more?” he said interrogatively, glancing at the consul’s boat crew, “or ye’ll be askin’ me a fair proportion.”

“It will be the gentleman’s own boat,” said the girl, with a certain shy assurance, “and he’ll be paying his boatmen by the day.”

The consul hastened to explain that their passage would involve no additional expense to anybody, and added, tactfully, that he was glad to enable them to oppose extortion.

“Ay, but it’s a preencipel,” said the father proudly, “and I’m pleased, sir, to see ye recognize it.”

He proceeded to help his daughter into the boat without any further leave-taking of the passenger, to the consul’s great surprise, and with only a parting nod from the young girl. It was as if this momentous incident were a sufficient reason for the absence of any further trivial sentiment.

Unfortunately the father chose to add an exordium for the benefit of the astonished boatsman still lying on his oars.

“Let this be a lesson to ye, ma frien’, when ye’re ower sure! Ye’ll ne’er say a herrin’ is dry until it be reestit an’ reekit.”

“Ay,” said the boatman, with a lazy, significant glance at the consul, “it wull be a lesson to me not to trust to a lassie’s GANGIN’ jo, when thair’s anither yin comin’.”

“Give way,” said the consul sharply.

Yet his was the only irritated face in the boat as the men bent over their oars. The young girl and her father looked placidly at the receding ship, and waved their hands to the grave, resigned face over the taffrail. The consul examined them more attentively. The father’s face showed intelligence and a certain probity in its otherwise commonplace features. The young girl had more distinction, with, perhaps, more delicacy of outline than of texture. Her hair was dark, with a burnished copper tint at its roots, and eyes that had the same burnished metallic lustre in their brown pupils. Both sat respectfully erect, as if anxious to record the fact that the boat was not their own to take their ease in; and both were silently reserved, answering briefly to the consul’s remarks as if to indicate the formality of their presence there. But a distant railway whistle startled them into emotion.

“We’ve lost the train, father!” said the young girl.

The consul followed the direction of her anxious eyes; the train was just quitting the station at Bannock.

“If ye had not lingered below with Jamie, we’d have been away in time, ay, and in our own boat,” said the father, with marked severity.

The consul glanced quickly at the girl. But her face betrayed no consciousness, except of their present disappointment.

“There’s an excursion boat coming round the Point,” he said, pointing to the black smoke trail of a steamer at the entrance of a loch, “and it will be returning to St. Kentigern shortly. If you like, we’ll pull over and put you aboard.”

“Eh! but it’s the Sabbath-breaker!” said the old man harshly.

The consul suddenly remembered that that was the name which the righteous St. Kentigerners had given to the solitary bold, bad pleasure-boat that defied their Sabbatical observances.

“Perhaps you won’t find very pleasant company on board,” said the consul smiling; “but, then, you’re not seeking THAT. And as you would be only using the boat to get back to your home, and not for Sunday recreation, I don’t think your conscience should trouble you.”

“Ay, that’s a fine argument, Mr. Consul, but I’m thinkin’ it’s none the less sopheestry for a’ that,” said the father grimly. “No; if ye’ll just land us yonder at Bannock pier, we’ll be ay thankin’ ye the same.”

“But what will you do there? There’s no other train to-day.”

“Ay, we’ll walk on a bit.”

The consul was silent. After a pause the young girl lifted her clear eyes, and with a half pathetic, half childish politeness, said: “We’ll be doing very well—my father and me. You’re far too kind.”

Nothing further was said as they began to thread their way between a few large ships and an ocean steamer at anchor, from whose decks a few Sunday-clothed mariners gazed down admiringly on the smart gig and the pretty girl in a Tam o’ Shanter in its stern sheets. But here a new idea struck the consul. A cable’s length ahead lay a yacht, owned by an American friend, and at her stern a steam launch swung to its painter. Without intimating his intention to his passengers he steered for it. “Bow!—way enough,” he called out as the boat glided under the yacht’s counter, and, grasping the companion-ladder ropes, he leaped aboard. In a few hurried words he explained the situation to Mr. Robert Gray, her owner, and suggested that he should send the belated passengers to St. Kentigern by the launch. Gray assented with the easy good-nature of youth, wealth, and indolence, and lounged from his cabin to the side. The consul followed. Looking down upon the boat he could not help observing that his fair young passenger, sitting in her demure stillness at her father’s side, made a very pretty picture. It was possible that “Bob Gray” had made the same observation, for he presently swung himself over the gangway into the gig, hat in hand. The launch could easily take them; in fact, he added unblushingly, it was even then getting up steam to go to St. Kentigern. Would they kindly come on board until it was ready? At an added word or two of explanation from the consul, the father accepted, preserving the same formal pride and stiffness, and the transfer was made. The consul, looking back as his gig swept round again towards Bannock pier, received their parting salutations, and the first smile he had seen on the face of his grave little passenger. He thought it very sweet and sad.

He did not return to the Consulate at St. Kentigern until the next day. But he was somewhat surprised to find Mr. Robert Gray awaiting him, and upon some business which the young millionaire could have easily deputed to his captain or steward. As he still lingered, the consul pleasantly referred to his generosity on the previous day, and hoped the passengers had given him no trouble.

“No,” said Gray with a slight simulation of carelessness. “In fact I came up with them myself. I had nothing to do; it was Sunday, you know.”

The consul lifted his eyebrows slightly.

“Yes, I saw them home,” continued Gray lightly. “In one of those by-streets not far from here; neat-looking house outside; inside, corkscrew stone staircase like a lighthouse; fourth floor, no lift, but SHE circled up like a swallow! Flat—sitting-room, two bedrooms, and a kitchen—mighty snug and shipshape and pretty as a pink. They OWN it too—fancy OWNING part of a house! Seems to be a way they have here in St. Kentigern.” He paused and then added: “Stayed there to a kind of high tea!”

“Indeed,” said the consul.

“Why not? The old man wanted to return my ‘hospitality’ and square the account! He wasn’t going to lie under any obligation to a stranger, and, by Jove! he made it a special point of honor! A Spanish grandee couldn’t have been more punctilious. And with an accent, Jerusalem! like a northeaster off the Banks! But the feed was in good taste, and he only a mathematical instrument maker, on about twelve hundred dollars a year!”

“You seem to know all about him,” said the consul smilingly.

“Not so much as he does about me,” returned Gray, with a half perplexed face; “for he saw enough to admonish me about my extravagance, and even to intimate that that rascal Saunderson, my steward, was imposing on me. SHE took me to task, too, for not laying the yacht up on Sunday that the men could go ‘to kirk,’ and for swearing at a bargeman who ran across our bows. It’s their perfect simplicity and sincerity in all this that gets me! You’d have thought that the old man was my guardian, and the daughter my aunt.” After a pause he uttered a reminiscent laugh. “She thought we ate and drank too much on the yacht, and wondered what we could find to do all day. All this, you know, in the gentlest, caressing sort of voice, as if she was really concerned, like one’s own sister. Well, not exactly like mine”—he interrupted himself grimly—“but, hang it all, you know what I mean. You know that our girls over there haven’t got THAT trick of voice. Too much self-assertion, I reckon; things made too easy for them by us men. Habit of race, I dare say.” He laughed a little. “Why, I mislaid my glove when I was coming away, and it was as good as a play to hear her commiserating and sympathizing, and hunting for it as if it were a lost baby.”

“But you’ve seen Scotch girls before this,” said the consul. “There were Lady Glairn’s daughters, whom you took on a cruise.”

“Yes, but the swell Scotch all imitate the English, as everybody else does, for the matter of that, our girls included; and they’re all alike. Society makes ‘em fit in together like tongued and grooved planks that will take any amount of holy-stoning and polish. It’s like dropping into a dead calm, with every rope and spar that you know already reflected back from the smooth water upon you. It’s mighty pretty, but it isn’t getting on, you know.” After a pause he added: “I asked them to take a little holiday cruise with me.”

“And they declined,” interrupted the consul.

Gray glanced at him quickly.

“Well, yes; that’s all right enough. They don’t know me, you see, but they do know you; and the fact is, I was thinking that as you’re our consul here, don’t you see, and sort of responsible for me, you might say that it was all right, you know. Quite the customary thing with us over there. And you might say, generally, who I am.”

“I see,” said the consul deliberately. “Tell them you’re Bob Gray, with more money and time than you know what to do with; that you have a fine taste for yachting and shooting and racing, and amusing yourself generally; that you find that THEY amuse you, and you would like your luxury and your dollars to stand as an equivalent to their independence and originality; that, being a good republican yourself, and recognizing no distinction of class, you don’t care what this may mean to them, who are brought up differently; that after their cruise with you you don’t care what life, what friends, or what jealousies they return to; that you know no ties, no responsibilities beyond the present, and that you are not a marrying man.”

“Look here, I say, aren’t you making a little too much of this?” said Gray stiffly.

The consul laughed. “I should be glad to know that I am.”

Gray rose. “We’ll be dropping down the river to-morrow,” he said, with a return of his usual lightness, “and I reckon I’ll be toddling down to the wharf. Good-bye, if I don’t see you again.”

He passed out. As the consul glanced from the window he observed, however, that Mr. Gray was “toddling” in quite another direction than the wharf. For an instant he half regretted that he had not suggested, in some discreet way, the conclusion he had arrived at after witnessing the girl’s parting with the middle-aged passenger the day before. But he reflected that this was something he had only accidentally overseen, and was the girl’s own secret.

II.

When the summer had so waxed in its fullness that the smoke of factory chimneys drifted high, permitting glimpses of fairly blue sky; when the grass in St. Kentigern’s proudest park took on a less sober green in the comfortable sun, and even in the thickest shade there was no chilliness, the good St. Kentigerners recognized that the season had arrived to go “down the river,” and that it was time for them to betake themselves, with rugs, mackintoshes, and umbrellas, to the breezy lochs and misty hillsides for which the neighborhood of St. Kentigern is justly famous. So when it came to pass that the blinds were down in the highest places, and the most exclusive pavements of St. Kentigern were echoless and desolate, the consul heroically tore himself from the weak delight of basking in the sunshine, and followed the others.

He soon found himself settled at the furthest end of a long narrow loch, made longer and narrower by the steep hillside of rock and heather which flanked its chilly surface on either side, and whose inequalities were lost in the firs and larches that filled ravine and chasm. The fragrant road which ran sinuously through their shadowy depths was invisible from the loch; no protuberance broke the seemingly sheer declivity; the even sky-line was indented in two places—one where it was cracked into a fanciful resemblance to a human profile, the other where it was curved like a bowl. Need it be said that one was distinctly recognized as the silhouette of a prehistoric giant, and that the other was his drinking-cup; need it be added that neither lent the slightest human suggestion to the solitude? A toy-like pier extending into the loch, midway from the barren shore, only heightened the desolation. And when the little steamboat that occasionally entered the loch took away a solitary passenger from the pier-head, the simplest parting was invested with a dreary loneliness that might have brought tears to the most hardened eye.

Still, when the shadow of either hillside was not reaching across the loch, the meridian sun, chancing upon this coy mirror, made the most of it. Then it was that, seen from above, it flashed like a falchion lying between the hills; then its reflected glory, striking up, transfigured the two acclivities, tipped the cold heather with fire, gladdened the funereal pines, and warmed the ascetic rocks. And it was in one of those rare, passionate intervals that the consul, riding along the wooded track and turning his eyes from their splendors, came upon a little house.

It had once been a sturdy cottage, with a grim endurance and inflexibility which even some later and lighter additions had softened rather than changed. On either side of the door, against the bleak whitewashed wall, two tall fuchsias relieved the rigid blankness with a show of color. The windows were prettily draped with curtains caught up with gay ribbons. In a stony pound-like enclosure there was some attempt at floral cultivation, but all quite recent. So, too, were a wicker garden seat, a bright Japanese umbrella, and a tropical hammock suspended between two arctic-looking bushes, which the rude and rigid forefathers of the hamlet would have probably resented.