PORT O’ DREAMS.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 3574, 25 February 1914, Page 3

PORT O’ DREAMS.

A CORNISH STUDY

Tiie brightest - object within my range of vision at this present moment is the copper kettle singing upon the the fire in my suburban room, writes Kate Horn in an English daily and, as 1 lay aside the newspaper in which I have just read how one may project one’s mind into the past, I fix my eyes on the kettle lid, on which the light from the electric burner lias concentrated. The steam moves the lid up and down with a persistent clattering ,and somehow I am leatfing^atorloo in the Cornish express for St. Trelytes, the little station for the Port of Dreams.

Out side in the street a hailstorm is beating the road into greasy mud and slashing against the windows with a chill reminder that Christmastide is with us, and the unpleasantest portion of the winter is before us. But even as I focus my eyes upon the bright spot in the copper kettle upon the bright spot in the copper kettle the roar and rush of London rolls aside—the clamor and insistence of a life that is full of doubt and difficulty and disappointment, pass away, and I stand with any feet on the little wayside Cornish platform among the fish boxes and the belated newspapers. THE BROWN BIRDS. Port of Dreams lies in a hollow between two precipitous cliffs. The place itself consists *ol’ a huddle of houses—a view—and an ancient and fish-like smell. It resembles very strongly one of the fishing ports on the Island of Gozo, in the Mediterranean Sea; and in my mind I always think of it as a home for lost seagulls, or the refuge of dotterells. Some charm unseen must draw those birds to Port of Dreams. They sit upon roofs and'chimneys, they perch on window-sills and scream from the cliff’s edge. They run along the quayside after the fishermen with a tameness that I felt at first, like Alexander Selkirk, was shocking; but eventually realised was due to the fact that the people of the Port of Dreams think them to be the souls of drowned sailors.

No man, woman, or child ever throws a stone at these singularly large brown birds with spotted wings and curved beafcs. They are present when the boats come in, and demand their share of the spoils, and no fishing fleet leaves the harbor but imagines the gulls will inform them where lie the finest herring shoals—the shimmering way of the blue mackerel.

A “HIGH” TEA

Mrs Xankiveli, olive-faced motherly soul, has prepared a tea for me such as the gods love, and when I have changed into my seaside clothing of jersey and cap, I sit down to enjoy it. 'l’lie table is spread with clotted cream fresh baked bread, browned in a clcam oven, splits, and saffron cakes.

There is also a dish of boiled herrings and a plump chicken, flanking a brown pot of tea and a jug of cider. When I have eaten and drunk, and discussed the changes of the past year I tear myself away from the fascinating society of Mrs Nankivell, and go up to the summit of the cliffs to watch the sunset. J sit down in the bracken and gorse. and my eyes take in the wonderful coastline from Harlaml Point to tlie dim, far, shadow of the Welsh mainland.

In the quivering opal light that shuts out the world and wraps Port of Dreams in a veil of loveliness, I come come down again to the white cottage on the cliffs to light my lamp and read a week-old paper before going to bed in the little low room under the roof. And I stretch out my hands even now to unlatch the gate that is usually tied up with a piece of string. But my hand falls upon the muffin disli that has arrived at a pitch ol heat unequalled before, and in my confusion I withdraw my eyes from the kettle and wake with a start. I wake to find the December hail still beating against the window. But Arcadia has been opened to, me through the medium of a paper that costs but a ha’penny and a kettle that is within the grasp of every living person who has the money to purchase one.