there was a third man along with them, who looked to be of a better class.

As soon as they were come within easy speech they let down their sail and lay quiet. In spite of my supplications 5 they drew no nearer in, and, what frightened me most of all, the new man te-hee'd with laughter as he talked and looked at me.

Then he stood up in the boat and addressed me a long while, speaking fast and with many wavings of his hand. 10 Listening very close, I caught the word "whatever" several times, but all the rest was Gaelic and might have been Greek and Hebrew for me.

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"Whatever," said I, to show him that I had caught a

word.

"Yes, yes—yes, yes," says he, and then began again as hard as ever in the Gaelic.

This time I picked out another word, "tide." Then I had a flash of hope. I remembered he was always waving his hand towards the mainland of the Ross.

"Do you mean that when the tide is out—?" I cried, and could not finish.

"Yes, yes," said he. "Tide."

At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my adviser had once more begun to te-hee with laughter), leaped 25 back the way I had come, from one stone to another, and set off running across the isle as I had never run before. In about half an hour I came out upon the shores of the

creek; and, sure enough, it was shrunk into a little trickle of water through which I dashed, not above my knees, and landed with a shout on the main island.

A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid, which is only what they call a tidal islet, and can be en- 5 tered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dryshod, or, at the most, by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get my shellfish-even I (I say), if I had sat down to think, instead of raging at my 10 fate, must have soon guessed the secret and got free. It was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful

illusion and taken the trouble to come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close upon one 15 hundred hours. But for the fishers I might have left my bones there in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past sufferings, but in my present case, being clothed like a beggar man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat.

From Kidnapped

Balfour (băl'fûr). Mull: an island off the west coast of Scotland. Earraid a small island near Mull. horrid terrible or horrible. This word is often wrongly used to mean "disagreeable." - turned in: lay down for the night.- Charles the Second: a king of England. In 1651 he was defeated in battle at Worcester (woos'ter) and barely escaped with his life. For two months he traveled in the disguise of a peasant. — coble (kõb'l): a small fishing boat. — Gaelic (gā ́lic): the ancient language of Scotland.

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BARRY CORNWALL was the assumed name of Bryan Waller Procter (1787-1874), an English poet whom a well-known critic calls a natural and exquisite song writer."

NOTE. The stormy petrels are tiny black and white birds, often called 5 by sailors Mother Carey's chickens." They are said to be seen most frequently when a storm is approaching.

A thousand miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,

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The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;

The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables, and iron chains,

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,

They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone
Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

Up and down! Up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown;

And midst the flashing and feathery foam

The Stormy Petrel finds a home,

A home, if such a place may be

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,

And only seeketh her rocky lair

To warm her young, and to teach them to spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing.

O'er the deep! O'er the deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the swordfish sleep;

Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

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The Petrel telleth her tale in vain;

For the mariner curseth the warning bird.

Who bringeth him news of the storm unheard!
Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill

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Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;

Yet he ne'er falters: so, Petrel, spring

Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

Petrel (pětírěl): a name meaning "little Peter"; perhaps from the story of St. Peter's walking on the waves.