The Island of Ascension, where we called, sticks also with its long swinging rollers breaking in white foam, its bare mountain peak capped with green, and the turtles in the ponds.

Those poor turtles.

We brought two of them home, and I used to look at them lying on their backs in the forecastle flapping their fins feebly.

One of them died, and I got the butcher to save me the shell.

Afterwards I gave it as a wedding present to Mr.and Mrs.Scroope, nicely polished and lined.