There were dark clouds beyond it, but on the new-washed island a sheaf of glory fell, as if on a mass of dark green wavellite. The green was pine trees, two acres of them. Even along the northern cliff there were pine boughs, patterned against it with charming interruptions and balance instead of symmetry, or starring it as with wavellite crystals.
To the east it had no harbor, but there in the deep water the largest steamer would be able to lie along its even rim. Westward the shore was deeply indented, like Norway. Here a smooth slope was damascened with lichens. Here a still smoother slope plunged into the water and left the minnows visible above it, hanging like colloidal silver in the sapphire translucency.
Along this Scandinavian coast he moved with gentle oar till he came to a dainty harbor melted out by fire and smoothed down by ice. Within it the water was deep enough to float the Kittiwake safe from storm.
He landed and looked around. He lifted up his eyes and beheld a sign in the heavens. It was set vertically, nailed to a pine, and bore the unwelcome words, NO CAMPING. But as there seemed to be other words, he mounted the cliff and read the whole tale:
NO CAMPING
except on terms.
For terms apply to
JEAN WINIFRED RICH
in
the house with bridal wreath.