As we neared the mouth of the harbor a little breeze now and then wrinkled the blue water, shook the spangles from the foliage, and gently lifted the spiral mist-wreaths that still clung along shore.

The measured dip of our oars and the drowsy twitterings of the birds seemed to mingle with, rather than break, the enchanted silence that reigned about us.
The scent of the new clover comes back to me now, as I recall that delicious morning when we floated away in a fairy boat down a river like a dream! The sun was well up when the nose of the Dolphin nestled against the snow-white bosom of Sandpeep Island.

This island, as I have said before, was the last of the cluster, one side of it being washed by the sea.

We landed on the river-side, the sloping sands and quiet water affording us a good place to moor the boat.
It took us an hour or two to transport our stores to the spot selected for the encampment.

Having pitched our tent, using the five oars to support the canvas, we got out our lines, and went down the rocks seaward to fish.