Of course, there is no reason in nature why a wooden bull should be more
pleasing than a flesh-and-blood bull, but it seems to encourage the
company, and they set off again with renewed speed, and at last reach
India Wharf in time to see the Nahant steamer packed full of
excursionists, with a crowd of people still waiting to go aboard. It does
not look inviting, and they hesitate. In a minute or two their spirits
sink so low, that if they should see the wooden bull step out of a grotto
on the deck of the steamer the spectacle could not revive them. At that
instant they think, with a surprising singleness, of Nantasket Beach, and
the bright colors in which the Gardens of Maolis but now appeared fade
away, and they seem to see themselves sauntering along the beautiful
shore, while the white-crested breakers crash upon the sand, and run up

"In tender-curving lines of creamy spray,"

quite to the feet of that lotus-eating party.

"Nahant is all rocks," says the leader to Aunt Melissa, who hears him with
a sweet and tranquil patience, and who would enjoy or suffer anything with
the same expression; "and as you've never yet seen the open sea, it's
fortunate that we go to Nantasket, for, of course, a beach is more
characteristic. But now the object is to get there. The boat will be
starting in a few moments, and I doubt whether we can walk it. How far is
it," he asks, turning toward a respectable-looking man, "to Liverpool
Wharf?"

"Well, it's consid'able ways," says the man, smiling.

"Then we must take a hack," says the pleasurer to his party. "Come on."