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Updated: May 8, 2025
The ship that my father had just brought into port was a trim barque, with high, tapering masts and a bright-green hull. "What's her name, Hal?" inquired Jessie as the vessel was brought to. I had accustomed myself to make out ships' names at great distances, and as the barque swung round with the stream I could read the words "Lydia of Leith" painted on her counter.
He heard the soft rush of running water. In the center of the canyon wound heavy lines of bright-green foliage, bordering a rocky brook. The air was close, warm, and sweet with perfume of flowers. The walls were low and shelving, and soon lost that rounded appearance peculiar to the wind-worn slopes above.
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