ile I was an A.B.) from Wells-street Home to the
South Kensington Museum. There were six of them--a Frenchman, a Dane,
a Russian Finn, two Englishmen, and an Irishman. Though continually
sailing from London for years, this was the first occasion they had ever
been west of Aldgate. The only mistake I made was in going too deep
at one step. The journey from Shadwell to South Kensington, under the
guidance of one familiar, through the hardest personal experiences, with
every corner of the vast network, was quite enough for one day. So that
by the time we entered the Museum they were surfeited temporarily with
sight-seeing, and not able to take in the wonders of the mighty place.
Seeing this, I did not persist, but, after some rest and refreshment,
led them across the road among the naval models. Ah! it was a rare treat
to see them there. For if there is one thing more than another which
interests a sailor, it is a well-made model of a ship. Sailors are
model-makers almost by nature, turning out with the most meagre outfit
of tools some wonderfully-finished replicas of the vessels is which they
have sailed. And the collection of naval models at South Kensington is,
I suppose, unsurpassed in the world for the number and finish of the
miniature vessels there shown.

Our day was a great success, never to be forgotten by those poor
fellows, whose only recreation previously had been to stroll listlessly
up and down the gloomy, stone-flagged hall of the great barracks until
sheer weariness drove them out into the turbid current of the "Highway,"
there to seek speedily some of the dirty haunts where the "runner" and
the prostitute: awaited them.

But I have wandered far from the Bay of Islands while thus chattering
of the difficulties that beset the path of rational enjoyment for the
sailor ashore. Returning to that happy day, I remember vividly how,
just after we got clear of the town, we were turning down a lane
between hedgerows wonderfully like one of our own country roads, when
something--I could not tell what--gripped my heart and sent a lump into
my throat. Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes, and I trembled from head
to foot with emotion. Whatever could it be? Bewildered for the moment,
I looked around, and saw a hedge laden with white hawthorn blossom, the
sweet English "may." Every Londoner knows how strongly that beautiful
scent appeals to him, even when wafted from draggled branches borne
slumwards by tramping urchins wh