wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sun. And here I
may observe of the very little wooden lighthouse, that when it is
lighted at night, - red and green, - it looks so like a medical
man's, that several distracted husbands have at various times been
found, on occasions of premature domestic anxiety, going round and
round it, trying to find the Nightbell.

But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour
begins to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water before
the water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little
shallow waves creep in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes
at the mastheads wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the
fishing-boats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists
a bright red flag, the steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and
carriages dangle in the air, stray passengers and luggage appear.
Now, the shipping is afloat, and comes up buoyantly, to look at the
wharf. Now, the carts that have come down for coals, load away as
hard as they can load. Now, the steamer smokes immensely, and
occasionally blows at the paddle-boxes like a vaporous whale-
greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the tide and the
breeze have risen, and you are holding your hat on (if you want to
see how the ladies hold THEIR hats on, with a stay, passing over
the broad brim and down the nose, come to Pavilionstone). Now,
everything in the harbour splashes, dashes, and bobs. Now, the
Down Tidal Train is telegraphed, and you know (without knowing how
you know), that two hundred and eighty-seven people are coming.
Now, the fishing-boats that have been out, sail in at the top of
the tide. Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive hisses and
shrieks, and the train comes gliding in, and the two hundred and
eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now, there is not only a tide of