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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"


The anchorage was one unbroken mirror, except where its glass--like surface
was shivered into sparkling ripples by the gambols of a skipjack, or the
flashing stoop of his enemy the pelican; and the reflection of the vessel
was so clear and steady, that at the distance of a cable's length you could
not distinguish the water--line, nor tell where the substance ended and
shadow began, until the casual dashing of a bucket overboard for a few
moments broke up the phantom ship; but the wavering fragments soon
reunited, and she again floated double, like the swan of the poet. The
heat was so intense, that the iron stanchions of the awning could not be
grasped with the hand, and where the decks were not screened by it, the
pitch boiledout from the seams. The swell rolled in from the offing in
long shining undulations, like a sea of quicksilver, whilst every now and
then a flying fish would spark out from the unruffled bosom of the heaving
water, and shoot away like a silver arrow, until it dropped with a flash
into the sea again. There was not a cloud in the heavens, but a quivering
blue haze hung over the land, through which the white sugar--works and
overseers' houses on the distant estates appeared to twinkle like objects
seen through a thin smoke, whilst each of the tall stems of the cocoa--nut
trees on the beach, when looked at steadfastly, seemed to be turning round
with a small spiral motion, like so many endless screws.


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