It was just at the beginning of summer, and the trees were all clothed
in that delicately-tinged foliage of feathery green, which they lose
later on in the season, while the ground below was covered with fruit
blossoms like snowflakes, a stray blue flag or daffodil just springing
up from the peaty soil, gleaming out amidst the vegetable wealth around,
and the air perfumed with a delicious scent, of the wallflowers that
were scattered about the garden in every stray nook and corner.
Sam was late on his return.
"Eight bells," his regular hour, had struck without his well-known voice
being heard hailing us from the porch; and it was quite half-past twelve
before the customary shout in the porch of the cottage told of his
arrival, for I was keeping strict watch over the time, having been
rendered extra hungry by my exertions in the garden--our dinner being
postponed till the missing mariner came.
However, "better late than never," says the old proverb; and here he was
now--although as soon as I saw him I noticed from his face that
something unusual and out-of-the-way had happened, his expression always
disclosing if anything was on or in his mind, and being a sad tell-tale.
He did not wait to let me ask, though.
"Hullo!" he cried, as soon as he came into the kitchen-parlour, where
the principal meal of the day was invariably partaken of, "I've got some
news for you."
"A ship?" I said, questioningly.
"Yes--an A1 too, my hearty."
"Hurrah!" I exclaimed--"Going a long voyage?"
"To Callao and back again, on a round trip."
"Better and better still," I said, in high glee, in which Sam Pengelly
shared with a kindred feeling, while his sister put up her apron to her
eyes, and began to cry at the idea of my going to sea. "Is she a large
vessel?"
"Aye, aye, my cockbird. A barque of a thousand tons, or more, and her
name's the _Esmeralda_."