own below: the miles and
miles of purple moor, the woods of Castle Rohan, the wide North Sea,
which turns such a heavenly blue beneath a cloudless sky; the two
stone piers, with each its lighthouse, and little people patiently
looking across the waves for Heaven knows what! the busy harbor full
of life and animation; under our feet the red roofs of the old town
and the little clock tower of the market-place; across the stream
the long quay with its ale-houses and emporiums and jet shops and
lively traffic; its old gabled dwellings and their rotting wooden
balconies. And rising out of all this, tier upon tier, up the
opposite cliff, the Whitby of the visitors, dominated by a gigantic
windmill that is--or was--almost as important a landmark as the old
abbey itself.

To the south the shining river ebbs and flows, between its big
ship-building yards and the railway to York, under endless moving
craft and a forest of masts, now straight on end, now slanting
helplessly on one side when there's not water enough to float their
keels; and the long row of Cornish fishing-smacks, two or three
deep.

How the blue smoke of their cooking wreathes upward in savory whiffs
and whirls! They are good cooks, these rovers from Penzance, and do
themselves well, and remind us that it is time to go and get lunch
at the hotel.

We do, and do ourselves uncommonly well also; and afterwards we take
a boat, we four (if the tide serves), and row up for a mile or so to
a certain dam at Ruswarp, and there we take another boat on a lovely
little secluded river, which is quite independent of tides, and
where for a mile or more the trees bend over us from either side as
we leisurely paddle along and watch the leaping salmon-trout,
pulling now and then under a drooping ash or weeping-willow to gaze
and dream or chat, or read out loud from _Sylvia's Lovers_; Sylvia
Robson once lived in a little farm-house near Upgang, which we know
well, and at Whitby every one reads about Sylvia Robson; or else we
tell stories, or inform each other what a jolly time we're having,
and tease old Chucker-out, who gets quite excited, and we admire the
discretion with which he disposes of his huge body as ballast to
trim the boat, and remains perfectly still in spite of his
excitement for fear he should upset us. Indeed, he has been learning
all his life how to behave in boats, and how to get in and out of
them.

And so on till tea-time at five, and we remember there's