THE WRECK OF THE "MERRY ANDREW."
Built in the bed of a beautiful valley and on gardened slopes rising from the waters which run to the sea, lies Sydney, the fair city of the South. It is spring although the month is October. The heavens are bright with bright clouds, the air is sweet with perfume from tree and flower, the bay is gemmed with gardened isles and promontories. Outside the heads which protect the bay and make it a safe refuge for mighty fleets, the sea dashes against hoary rocks which stand defiant of its wrath; but to-day, swayed by the influence of smiling sun and cloud, the grim old walls sport with the huge waves, splinter them into silver spray, and send them, laughing, back into the sea. In the fair land girt by the blue waters of the South Pacific are orange-groves, the fragrance of whose snow-white blossoms is in harmony with the time and place, and coral-trees with bright scarlet flower, and trees of peach, loquat, and bread, and hill-slopes where the vines grow, and myriad other evidences of Nature's beneficence. All things that see the light contribute to the beauty of spring.
"'Tis the garden of the world," said Captain Liddle to his wife, as they stood apart from the others on board the "Merry Andrew;" "'tis the garden of the world," he repeated, gazing at the lovely hills and gloriously-tinted sky with that sense of gratitude which it is so good for a man to experience.
Her thoughts were in harmony with his, but she did not answer him immediately. She, too, was sensible of the beautiful scene around them, and stood by his side in silent thankfulness. To-morrow, the "Merry Andrew," having discharged her cargo, and taken in another (chiefly hard wood), was to set sail for China, where she had a charter for London. It was of London--of home--that the captain's wife was thinking, and presently her thoughts found simple expression.
"Yes, John," she said; "it is indeed a garden--a beautiful garden; but it is not home."
"Why now, Bessie," said the captain, looking down smilingly upon the wife he had waited and worked for as anxiously as Jacob did for Rachel, "could you not content yourself here?"
"All my life, John?"
"All your life, my dear."
"No," she said without hesitation; "I should always be pining for home. Even if we were poor, and it were a necessity that we should live here, I don't think I could manage to quite content myself. But as it is"--
"As it is, Bessie"--repeated her husband, in secret delight at his wife's enthusiasm.