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Updated: May 2, 2025
In the original Every island's but a prison. The song is by a Mr. Coffey, and is given in Ritson's English Songs , ii. 122. It begins: 'Welcome, welcome, brother debtor, To this poor but merry place, Where no bailiff, dun, nor setter, Dares to show his frightful face. See ante, iii. 269. He wrote to Mrs. Do you remember the song
As we looked up, a deep bellow stirred the air, which had fallen quite still, long forks of lightning shot horizontally from the direction of the island's interior, and flashes of dull red were reflected from the canopy of cloud. The men stared with their mouths open.
Two long parallel elevations, rising some three arrow-flights into the air, double-ridge the island's entire length, lapping between, a widening vale, so level withal, that at either extremity, the green of its groves blends with the green of the lagoon; and the isle seems divided by a strait.
But," added he, observing the other's embarrassment, "dat is needer here nor dere. I always suspect you bery much, sar, and is willing to do anything to obleege you. Tell us, now, 'xactly, what you want me to do." "Why, you see, I want somebody to go along with me to be there when I take him, that's all. The island's three or four miles off, and I shall want you to help row the boat."
I put my hand upon her arm and led her forward to the sea's edge, whence we could espy both the sword-fish reef and the ashes of her bungalow at the island's heart. The day had broken by this time, quick and beautiful as ever in the Pacific Ocean. Sunny waves rolled up to our very feet. There were glittering caps of rock gleaming above the island of death.
"I should say not," laughed Rob; "and besides all that, I've got lots of lines and squids, and the blues and mackerel are running good." "Can't I take along my twenty-two rifle that island's just swarming with rabbits, and I think I heard some quail when we were there the other day," pleaded Merritt. "Not in season," answered Rob laconically. "Laws not up on them till November."
I plunged among the bushes, tripping headlong, tumbling over roots, and scraping my face as I tore this way and that among the preventing branches. Then, quite unexpectedly, I came out upon the island's point and saw a dark figure outlined between the water and the sky. It was the Swede. And already he had one foot in the river! A moment more and he would have taken the plunge.
August 7: BBC announced this morning the Grass is in Bordeaux and under the Defense of the Realm Act every man and woman is automatically in service and will be solely responsible for a hundred square feet of the island's surface, their stations to be assigned by the chief county constable. Tried to get Sir H C no phone service. Wrote on my history till noon.
In 1643, as compared with some five thousand negroes of all sorts, there were about eighteen thousand white men capable of bearing arms; and in the little island's area of 166 square miles there were nearly ten thousand separate landholdings. Then came the introduction of sugar culture, which brought the beginning of the end of the island's transformation.
Breasting the house, he saw that she had swerved toward the island's long, leeward neck, from whence there was thrown a narrow pile-bridge connecting it with the mainland. His feet rang on the planks as she gained the opposite shore; and his heart laughed with joy, for he divined the instinct that had called her, not to her father's side, but to the mysterious heart of the woods.
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