The Pacific
THE Pacifibsp;is instant and uain like the soul of man. Sometimes it is grey like the English el off Beabsp;Head, with a heavy swell, and sometimes it is rough, capped with white crests, and boisterous. It is not so often that it is calm and blue. Then, indeed, the blue is arrogant. The sun shines fiercely from an unclouded sky. The trade wind gets into your blood and you are filled with an impatienbsp;for the unknown. The billows, magnifitly rolling, stretbsp;widely on all sides of you, and you fet your vanished youth, with its memories, cruel and sweet, in a restless, intolerable desire for life. On subsp;a a as this Ulyss sailed when he sought the Happy Isles. But there are days also when the Pacifibsp;is like a lake. The a is flat and shining. The flying fish, a gleam of shadow on the brightness of a mirror, make little fountains of sparkling drops when they dip. There are fleebsp;clouds on the horizon, and at sunt they take strange shapes so that it is impossible not to believe that you e a range of lofty mountains. They are the mountains of the try of your dreams. You sail through an unimaginable silenbsp;upon a magibsp;a. Now and then a few gulls suggest that land is not far off, a fotten island hidden in a wilderness of waters; but the gulls, the melancholy gulls, are the only sign you have of it. You e never a tramp, with its friendly smoke, no stately bark or trim ser, not a fishing boat even:it is an empty dert; and prently the emptiness fills you with a vague foreboding.