Come! Let me bid defiance to this clumsy dragon of vapour worming its
ever-lengthening, ever-widening tail out from the close precincts of a
mangrove creek. Shock-headed it rolls and squirms. Soft-headed, too, for
the weakest airs knead and mould it into ever-varying shapes. Now it has
a lolling, impudent tongue--a truly unruly member, wagging
disrespectfully at the decent night. Now a perky top-knot, and presently
no head at all. Lumbering, low-lying, cowardly--a plaything, a toy, a
mockery, a sport for the wilful zephyrs. Now it lifts a bully head as it
creeps unimpeded across the sea and spreads, infinitely soft,
all-encompassing. As if by magic the mainland is blotted out. The sea is
dark and death-like, the air clammy, turgid, and steamy. Heavy vapour
settles upon the hills of the Island, descending slowly and with the
passivity of fate, until there is but a thin stratum of clear air between
the gloomy levels and the portentous pall.

Lesser islands to the south are merely cloud-capped. This lower level with
blurred and misty edges may not be further compressed, but the air is
warm, thick, sticky, and so saturated with vegetable odours that even the
salt of the sea has lost its savour.

A low, quavering whistle heralds the approach of a nervous curlew,
running and pausing, and stamping, its script--an erratic scrawl of
fleurs-de-lis--on the easy sand. Halting on the verge of the water, it
furtively picks up crabs as if it were a trespasser, conscious of a
shameful or wicked deed and fearful of detection. It is not night nor yet
quite day, but this keen-eyed, suspicious bird knows all the permanent
features of the sand-spit. The crouching, unaccustomed shape bewilders
it; it pipes inquiringly, stops, starts with quick, agitated steps,
snatches a crab--a desperate deed--and flies off with a penetrating cry
of warning.