 Book 1, chapters 11 and 12 of The Blue Lagoon. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Adrian Pretzelis. The Blue Lagoon by H. DeVere, Stagpaw. Part 2, Chapter 11. THE ISLAND CHILDR, shouted Paddy. He was at the cross-trees in the full dawn, whilst the children standing beneath on deck were craning their faces up to him. There's an island, Furnitus. Harrah! cried Dick. He was not quite sure what an island might be like in the concrete, but it was something fresh, and Paddy's voice was jubilant. "'Land whole it is,' said he, coming down to the deck. Come for it to the bowels, and I'll show it to you.' He stood on the timber in the bowels and lifted Emeline up in his arms. And even at that humble elevation from the water she could see something of an undecided colour, green for choice, on the horizon. It was not directly ahead but on the starboard bow, or, as she would have expressed it, to the right. When Dick had looked and expressed his disappointment at their being so little to see, Paddy began to make preparations for leaving the ship. It was only just now, with land in sight, that he recognised in some fashion the horror of the position from which they were about to escape. He fed the children hurriedly with some biscuits and tinned meat, and then, with a biscuit in his hand, eating as he went, he trotted about the decks, collecting things and stowing them in the dinghy. The bolt of striped flannel, all the old clothes, a housewife full of needles and thread, such as seamen sometimes carry, the half sack of potatoes, a saw which he found in the caboose, the precious coil of tobacco, and a lot of other odds and ends he'd trans-shipped, sinking the little dinghy several strikes in the process. Also of course he took the breaker of water and the remains of the biscuit and tinned stuff they had brought on board. When he's being stowed and the dinghy ready, he went forad with the children to the bow to see how the island was bearing. It had loomed up nearer during the hour or so in which he had been collecting and storing the things, nearer and more to the right, which meant that the brig was being borne by a fairly swift current, and that she would pass it, leaving two or three miles to starboard. It was well they had command of the dinghy. The seas all around it, said Emmeline, who was seated on Paddy's shoulder, holding on tight to him and gazing upon the island, the green of whose trees was now visible, an oasis of verdure in the sparkling and surrific blue. Are we going there, Paddy? asked Dick, holding on to a stay and straining his eyes toward the land. Hi, we are, said Mr. Button. Hot foot! Five nuts if we're making one, and it's a sure we'll be by noon, and maybe sooner. The breeze had freshened up and was blowing dead from the island as though the island were making a weak attempt to blow them away from it. Oh, what a fresh and perfumed breeze it was! All sorts of tropical growing things had joined their scent in one bouquet. Smell it, said Emmeline, expanding her small nostrils. That's what I smelt last night. Only it's stronger now. The last reckoning taken on board the Northumberland had proved the ship to be south by east of the Marquesas. This was evidently one of those small lost islands that lie here and there, south by east of the Marquesas. Islands the most lonely and beautiful in the world. As they gazed, it grew before them and shifted still more to the right. It was hilly and green now, though the trees could not be clearly made out. Here the green was lighter in colour, and there darker. A rim of pure white marble seemed to surround its base. It was foam breaking on the barrier reef. In another hour the feathery foliage of the coconut palms could be made out, and the old sailor judged it time to take to the boat. He lifted Emmeline, who was clasping her luggage over the rail onto the channel, and deposited her in the stern sheets. Then, dick! In a moment the boat was adrift. The mast steeped, and the Shenandoah left to pursue a mysterious voyage at the will of the currents of the sea. You're not going to the island, Paddy? cried dick, as the old man put the boat on the port-tack. You be easy, replied the other, and don't be learning your grandmother. How dare devils you think I'd fetched a land sailing dead in the wind's eye? Has the wind eyes? Mr. Button did not answer the question. He was troubled in his mind. What if the island were inhabited? He had spent several years in the South Seas. He knew the people of the Marquesas and Samoa, and liked them. But here he was out of his bearings. However, all the troubling in the world was of no use. It was a case of the island or the deep sea, and putting the boat on the starboard-tack, he lit his pipe and leaned back with the tiller in the crock of his arm. His keen eyes had made out from the deck of the brig an opening in the reef, and he was making to run the dinghy abreast of the opening, and then to take to the skulls and row her through. Now, as they drew nearer, a sound came on the breeze. Sound faint and sonorous and dreamy. It was the sound of the breakers on the reef. The sea just here was heaving to a deeper swell, as if it vexed in its sleep at the resistance to it of the land. Emmeline, sitting with her bundle in her lap, stared without speaking at the sight before her. Even in the bright, glorious sunshine, and despite the greenery that showed beyond, it was a desolate sight seen from her place in the dinghy, a white forlorn beach over which the breakers raced and tumbled, seagulls wheeling and screaming, and over all the thunder of the surf. Suddenly the break became visible, and a glimpse of smooth blue water beyond. Button unshipped the tiller, unstept the mast, and took to the skulls. As they drew nearer, the sea became more active, savage and alive. The thunder of the surf became louder, the breakers more fierce and threatening, the opening broader. One could see the water swirling round the coral piers, for the tide was flooding into the lagoon. It had seized the little dinghy, and was bearing it along far swifter than the skulls could have driven it. The people screamed around them. The boat rocked and swayed, Dick shouted with excitement, and Emmeline shut her eyes tight. Then as though a door had been swiftly and silently closed, the sound of the surf became suddenly less. The boat floated on an even keel. She opened her eyes, and found herself in wonderland. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 The Lake of Azure On either side lay a great sweep of waving blue water, calm almost as a lake, sapphire here, and here with the tints of the aquamarine. It was so clear that fathoms away below you could see the branching coral, the schools of passing fish, and the shadows of the fish upon the spaces of sand. Before them the clear water washed the sands of the white beach, the coco palms waved and whispered in the breeze, and as the oarsmen lay on his oars to look, a flock of bluebirds rose, as if suddenly freed from the treetops, wheeled and past, soundless, like a wreath of smoke over the treetops of the higher land beyond. Look, shouted Dick, who had his nose over the side of the boat, look at the fish! Mr. Button cried Emmeline, where are we? Beedad, I don't know, but we might be in a worth's place, I'm looking, replied the old man, sweeping his eyes over the blue and tranquil lagoon, from the barrier reef to the happy shore. On either side of the broad beach before them the coco nut trees came down like two regiments, and bending gazed at their own reflections in the lagoon, beyond lay-waving chaparral, where coco palms and the breadfruit trees intermixed with the mammy apple and the tendrils of the wild vine. On one of the piers of coral at the break of the reef stood a single coco palm, bending with a slight curve. It too seemed seeking its reflection in the waving water. But the soul of it all, the indescribable thing about this picture of mirrored palm trees, blue lagoon, coral reef and sky, was the light. Away at sea the light was blinding, dazzling, cruel. Away at sea it had nothing to focus itself upon, nothing to exhibit but infinite spaces of blue water and desolation. Here it made the air a crystal through which the gazer saw the loveliness of the land and reef, the green of palm, the white of coral, the wheeling gulls, the blue lagoon, all sharply outlined, burning, coloured, arrogant, yet tender, heart breakingly beautiful, for the spirit of eternal mourning was there eternal happiness, eternal youth. As the oarsman pulled the tiny craft towards the beach, neither he nor the children saw, away behind the boat, on the water, near the bending palm tree at the break of the reef, something that for a moment insulted the day and was gone, something like a small triangle of dark canvas that rippled through the water and sank from sight, something that appeared and vanished like an evil thought. It did not take long to beach the boat. Mr. Button tumbled over the side up to his knees in water whilst Dick crawled over the bow. Catch hold of her the same as I do, cried Paddy, laying hold of the starboard-gunnel, whilst Dick, imitative as a monkey, seized the gunnel to port, and then, yo-ho, chilemen, off with her, off with her, heave, ho, chilemen! Leave her be now, she's high enough. He took Emmeline in his arms and carried her up on the sand. It was from just here on the sand that you could see the true beauty of the lagoon, that lake of sea water forever protected from storm and trouble by the barrier reef of coral. Right from where the little clear ripples ran up the strand, it led the eye to the break in the coral reef where the palm gazed at its own reflection in the water, and there, beyond the break, one quarter vision of the great, heaving, sparkling sea. The lagoon just here was perhaps more than a third of a mile broad. I have never measured it, but I know that, standing by the palm tree on the reef, flinging up one's arm and shouting to a person on the beach, the sound took a perceptible time to cross the water. I should say perhaps an almost perceptible time. The distant signal and the distant call were almost coincident, yet not quite. Dick, mad with delight at the place in which he found himself, was running about like a dog just out of the water. Mr. Button was discharging the cargo of the dinghy on the dry white sand. Emmeline seated herself with her precious bundle on the sand, and was watching the operations of her friend, looking at the things around her, and feeling very strange. For all she knew, all this was the ordinary accompaniment of a sea voyage. Paddy's manner throughout had been set to the one idea, not to frighten the children. The weather had backed him up. But down in the heart of her lay the knowledge that all was not as it should be. The hurried departure from the ship, the fog in which her uncle had vanished. Those things and others as well, she felt instinctively were not right. But she said nothing. She had not long for meditation, however, for Dick was running towards her with a live crab which he had picked up, calling out that he was going to make it bite her. Take it away!" cried Emmeline, holding both her hands with fingers widespread in front of her face. Mr. Button, Mr. Button, Mr. Button! Leave her be, you little devil! Roared Pat, who was depositing the last of the cargo on the sand. Leave her be! Oh, it's a hoiden I'll be giving you. What's a devil, Paddy? asked Dick, panting from his exertions. Paddy, what's a devil? You're one. Acts no questions now, for it's tired I am, and I want to rest my bones. He flung himself under the shade of a palm tree, took out his tinderbox, tobacco, and pipe, cut some tobacco up, filled his pipe, and lit it. Emmeline crawled up and sat near him, and Dick flung himself down on the sand near Emmeline. Mr. Button took off his coat and made a pillow of it against a coconut tree-stem. He had found the El Dorado of the weary. With his knowledge of the South Seas, a glance at the vegetation to be seen told him that food for a regiment might be had for the taking. Water, too. Right down the middle of the strand was a depression, which, in the rainy season, would be the bed of a rushing rivulet. The water just now was not strong enough to come all the way to the lagoon, but a way up there beyond in the woods lay the source, and he'd find it in due time. There was enough in the breaker for a week, and green coconuts were to be had for the climbing. Emmeline contemplated Paddy for a while as he smoked and rested his bones. Then a great thought occurred to her. She took the little shore from around the parcel she was holding, and exposed the mysterious box. Oh, begotter, the box! said Paddy, leaning on his elbow interestingly. I might have known you wouldn't have forgot it. Mrs. James, said Emmeline, made me promise not to open it till I got on shore, for the things in it might get lost. Well, you're on shore now, said Dick, open it. I'm going to, said Emmeline. She carefully undid the string, refusing the assistance of Paddy's knife. Then the brown paper came off, disclosing a common cardboard box. She raised the lid half an inch, peeped in, and shut it again. Open it! cried Dick, mad with curiosity. What's in it, honey? Asked the old sailor who was as interested as Dick. Things, replied Emmeline. Then all at once she took the lid off, and disclosed a tiny tea service of China, packed in shavings. There was a teapot with a lid, a cream jug, cups and sauces, and six microscopic plates, each painted with a pansy. Sure it's a tea-set, said Paddy, in an interested voice. Glory be to God, would you look at the little plates with the flowers on them? Ha! said Dick in disgust. I thought it might have been soldiers. I don't want soldiers, replied Emmeline, in a voice of perfect contentment. She unfolded a piece of tissue paper, and took from it a sugar tongs and six spoons. Then she arrayed the whole lot on the sand. Well, if that don't beat all, said Paddy, and when are you going to ask me to tea with you? Some time, replied Emmeline, collecting the things and carefully repacking them. Mr. Button finished his pipe, tapped the ashes out, and placed it in his pocket. I would be after rigging up a bit of a tent, said he, as he rose to his feet, to shelter us from the dew to-night. But I'd first have a look at the woods to see if I can find water. Leave your box with the other things, Emmeline. There's no one here to take it. Emmeline left her box on the heap of things that Paddy had placed in the shadow of the coconut trees, took his hand, and the three entered the grove on the right. It was like entering a pine forest. The tall symmetrical stems of the trees seemed set by mathematical law, each at a given distance from the other. Whichever way you entered, a twilight alley set with tree-bowls lay before you. Looking up, you saw at an immense distance above a pale green roof, patterned with sparkling and flashing points of light, where the breeze was busy playing with the green fronds of the tree. Mr. Button, moment, Emmeline, we won't get lost, will we? Last no faith. Sure, we're going uphill, and all we have to do is to come down again when we want to get back. We're nuts. A green nut detached itself from up above, came down rattling and tumbling, and hopped on the ground. Paddy picked it up. It's a green coconut, said he, putting it in his pocket. It was not much bigger than a jaffa orange, and we'll have it for a day. That's not a coconut, said Dick. Coconuts are brown. I had five cents once, and I bought one, and scraped it out, and yet it. When Dr. Sims made Dicky sick, said Emmeline, he said the wonder to him was how Dicky held it all. Come on, said Mr. Button, and don't be talking, or it's the chlorocons will be after us. What chlorocons, demanded Dick, little men no bigger than your thumb that make the brogues for the good people. Who's they? Wished and don't be talking. Mind your head, Emmeline, or the branches will be hitting you in the face. They had left the coconut grove and entered the chaparral. Here was a deeper twilight, and all sorts of trees lent their foliage to make the shade. The artu, with its delicately diamond trunk, the great breadfruit, tall as a beach, and shadowy as a cave. The aoe, and the eternal coconut palm, all grew here like brothers. Great ropes of wild vine twined like the snake of the leocoon from tree to tree, and all sorts of wonderful flowers from the orchid shaped like a butterfly to the scarlet hibiscus made beautiful the gloom. Suddenly Mr. Button stopped. Wished, said he. Through the silence, a silence filled with the hum and the murmur of wood insects and the faint, far song of the reef, came a tinkling, rippling sound. It was water. He listened to make sure of the bearing of the sound that he made for it. Next moment they found themselves in a little grass-grown glade. From the hilly ground above, over a rock, black and polished like ebony, fell a tiny cascade not much broader than one's hand. Ferns grew around, and from a tree above a great rope of wild convolvulus flowers blew their trumpets in the enchanted twilight. The children cried out at the prettiness of it, and Emmeline ran and dabbled her hands in the water. Just above the little waterfall sprang a banana tree, laden with fruit. It had immense leaves, six feet long and more, and broad as a dinner-table. One could see the golden glint of the right fruit through the foliage. In a moment Mr. Button had kicked off his shoes, and was going up the rock like a cat, absolutely, for it seemed to give him nothing to climb by. Her roll, cried Dick in admiration, look at Paddy. Emmeline looked and saw nothing but swaying leaves. Stand from under, he shouted, and the next moment down came a huge bunch of yellow-jacketed bananas. Dick shouted with delight, but Emmeline showed no excitement. She had discovered something. End of Chapter 12. Book 1, chapters 13, 14, and 15 of The Blue Lagoon. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Adrian Pretzellus. The Blue Lagoon by H. Devere Stackpool. Chapter 13. Death, veiled with lichen. Mr. Button, said she when the latter had descended, there's a little barrel. She pointed to something green and lichen-covered that lay between the trunks of two trees, something that eyes less sharp than the eyes of a child might have mistaken for a boulder. Sure in faith it's an old empty barrel, said Button, wiping the sweat from his brow, and staring at the thing. Some ship must have been weathering here and forgot it. It'll do for a seat, whilst we have dinner. He sat down upon it and distributed the bananas to the children, who sat down on the grass. The barrel looked such a deserted and neglected thing that his imagination assumed it to be empty. Empty or full, however, it made an excellent seat, for it was quarter sunk in the green, soft earth and immovable. If ships has been here, ships will come again, said he as he munched his bananas. "'Will daddy's ship come here?' asked Dick. "'Hey, to be sure it will,' replied the other, taking out his pipe. "'Now run a boat and play with the flores, and leave me alone to smoke a pipe, and then we'll all go to the top of the hill beyond, and have a look round us.' "'Come long, Em,' cried Dick, and the children started off amongst the trees, Dick pulling at the hanging vine tendrils, and Emeline plucking what blossoms she could find within her small reach. When he had found his pipe, he hallowed, and small voices answered him from the wood. Then the children came running back, Emeline laughing and showing her small white teeth, a large bunch of blossoms in her hand, Dick flowerless, but carrying what seemed a large green stone. "'Look what a funny thing I've found,' he cried. "'It's got holes in it.' "'Drop it,' shouted Mr. Button, springing from the barrel as if someone had struck an awl into him. "'Where'd you find it? What do you mean by touching it? Give it here.' He took it gingerly in his hands. It was a lichen-covered skull, with a great dent in the back of it, where it had been cloven by an axe or some sharp instrument. He hoeved it as far as he could away amidst the trees. "'What is it, Penny?' asked Dick, half astonished, half frightened at the old man's manner. "'It's nothing good,' replied Mr. Button. "'There were two others, and I wanted to fetch them,' grumbled Dick. "'You must leave them alone. "'Musha, musha, but there's been black ruins here in days gone by. "'What is it, Emmeline?' Emmeline was holding out a bunch of flowers for admiration. He took a great gaudy blossom, if flowers can ever be called gaudy, and struck its stalk in the pocket of his coat. Then he led the way uphill, muttering as he went. The higher they got, the less dense became the trees and the fewer the coconut palms. The coconut palm loves the sea, and the few they had here all had their heads bent in the direction of the lagoon, as if yearning after it. They passed a cane break where canes twenty feet high whispered together like bullrushes. Then a sunlit swad, destitute of tree or shrub, led them sharply upward for a hundred feet or so to where a great rock, the highest point on the island, stood, casting its shadow in the sunshine. The rock was about twenty feet high and easy to climb. Its top was almost flat and as spacious as an ordinary dinner table. From it one could obtain a complete view of the island and the sea. Looking down one's eyes travelled over the trembling and waving tree tops to the lagoon, beyond the lagoon to the reef, beyond the reef to the infinite space of the Pacific. The reef encircled the whole island, here further from the land, here closer. The song of the surf on it came as a whisper, just like the whisper you hear in a shell. But a strange thing, though the sound heard on the beach was continuous, up here one could distinguish an intermittency as breaker after breaker dashed itself to death on the coral strand below. You have seen a field of green barley ruffled over by the wind, just so from the hilltop you could see the wind in its passage over the sunlit foliage below. It was breezing up from the southwest and banyan and coco palm, artu and breadfruit swayed and rocked in the merry wind. So bright and moving was the picture of the breeze swept sea, the blue lagoon, the foam-dashed reef, and the rocking trees, that one felt one had surprised some mysterious gala day, some festival of nature, more than ordinarily glad. As if to strengthen the idea, now and then above the trees would burst what seemed a rocket of colored stars. The stars would drift away in a flock on the wind and be lost. They were flights of birds. All colored birds peopled the trees below, blue, scarlet, dove-colored, bright of eyes, but voiceless. From the reef you could occasionally see the seagulls rising here and there in clouds, like small puffs of smoke. The lagoon, here deep, here shallow, presented according to its depth or shallowness the colors of ultramarine or sky. The broadest parts were the palest, because the most shallow, and here and there in the shallows you might see a faint tracery of coral ribs almost reaching the surface. The island at its broadest might have been three miles across. There was not a sign of house or habitation to be seen, and not a sail on the whole of the wide Pacific. It was a strange place to be, up here, to find oneself surrounded by grass and flowers and trees, and all the kindness of nature, to feel the breeze blow, to smoke one's pipe, and to remember that one was in a place uninhabited and unknown, a place to which no messages were ever carried, except by the wind or by the seagulls. In this solitude the beetle was as carefully painted and the flower carefully tended, as though all the peoples of the civilized world were standing by to criticize or approve. Nowhere in the world, perhaps so well as here, could you appreciate nature's splendid indifference to the great affairs of man. The old sailor was thinking nothing of this sort. His eyes were fixed on a small and almost imperceptible stain on the horizon to the south-south west. It was, no doubt, another island, almost hulled down on the horizon. Save for this blemish, the whole wheel of the sea was empty and serene. Emmeline had not followed them up to the rock. She had gone botanizing where some bushes displayed great bunches of the crimson areta berries, as if to show to the sun what earth could do in the way of manufacturing poison. She plucked two great bunches of them, and with this treasure came back to the base of the rock. Leave them berries down, cried Mr. Button, when she had attracted his attention. Don't put them into your mouth! Dems, they never wake up berries. He came down off the rock, hand over fist, flung the poisonous things away, and looked into Emmeline's small mouth, which, at his command, she opened wide. There was only a little pink tongue in it, however, culled up like a rose-leaf, no sign of berries or poison. So, giving her a little shake, just as a nursemaid would have done in like circumstances, he took Dick off the rock and led the way back to the beach. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Echoes of Fairyland Mr. Button, said Emmeline that night as they sat on the sand near the tent he had improvised, Mr. Button, cats go to sleep. They had been questioning him about the never wake up berries. Who said they didn't? asked Mr. Button. I mean, said Emmeline, they go to sleep and never wake up again. Ours did. It had stripes on it and a white chest and rings all down its tail. It went to sleep in the garden, all stretched out and showing its teeth. And I told Jane and Dickie ran in and told Uncle. I went to Mrs. Sims, the doctor's wife, to tea, and when I came back I asked Jane where Pussy was and she said it was dead and buried and I wasn't to tell Uncle. I remember, said Dick, it was the day I went to the circus and you told me not to tell Daddy the cat was dead and buried. But I told Mrs. James's man when he came to do the garden and I asked him where cats went when they were dead and buried and he said he guessed they went to hell, at least he hoped they did, for they were always scratching up the flowers. Then he told me not to tell anyone he said that, for it was a swear word and he ordered to have said it. I asked him what he'd give me if I didn't tell and he gave me five cents. That was the day I bought the coconut. The tent, a makeshift affair consisting of two skulls and a tree branch which Mr. Button had sold off from a dwarf aowa and the stacel he had brought from the brig, was pitched in the centre of the beach so as to be out of the way of falling coconuts should the breeze strengthen during the night. The sun had set, but the moon had not yet risen and they sat in the starlight on the sand near the temporary abode. What's the things you said made the boots for the people, Paddy? Ask Dick after a pause. Which things? You said in the wood I wasn't to talk else? Oh, the clara-carnes, the little men that cobbles the good people's brogues. Is that what you mean? Yes, said Dick, not knowing quite whether it was them or not that he meant, but anxious for information that he felt would be curious. And what are the good people? Sure, where we are born and bred that you don't know the good people is the other name for the fairies, save in their presence. There aren't any, replied Dick. Mrs. Sims said there weren't. Mrs. James, Button Emmeline, said there were. She said she'd like to see children believe in fairies. She was talking to another lady who'd got a red feather in her bonnet and a firm muff. They were having tea, and I was sitting on the hearth rug. She said the world was getting to something or other. And then the other lady said it was, and asked Mrs. James, did she see Mrs. Someone in the awful Hatchy War Thanksgiving Day? They didn't say anything more about fairies. But Mrs. James, whether you believe in them or not, said Paddy, there they are. And maybe they're popping out of the woods behind us now and listening to us talking, though I'm doubtful if there's any in these parts, though down in Connacht they were as thick as blackberries in the old days. Ah, musher, musher, the old days, the old days. When will I be seeing them again? Now you may believe me or believe me not, but my own old father, God rest his soul, was coming over Croc Patrick one night before Christmas, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand of him, and a goose, plucked and cleaned and all in the other, which same he'd won in a lottery. When, here in a tune, no loader than the buzzing of a bee, over a fursbushy peeps, and there round a big white stone, the good people were dancing in a ring, hand in hand, and kicking their heels, and the oyes of them glowing like the oyes of moths, and a chap on the stone, no bigger than the joint of your thumb, playing to them on a bagpipes. With that he let out a yell, and drops the goose, and makes for home, over the hedge and ditch, bound in like a buck kangaroo, and a face on him as white as flour when he burst in through the door, where we was all sitting round a fire, brown in chestnuts, to see who'd be married the first. And what in the name of the saints is the matter, widgets, says my mother. I've seen the good people, says he, up on the field beyond, says he, and they've got the goose, says he, but, begara, I've saved the bottle, he says, draw the cork, and give me a taste of it, for me hats and me throat, and me tongues like a brick kiln, and when we come to praise the cork out of the bottle, there was nothing in it, and when we went next morning to look for the goose, it was gone, but there was the stone, sure enough, and the marks on it of the little brogues of the chap that played the bagpipes, and who'd be doubting there were fairies after that. The children said nothing for a while, and then Dix said, tell us about chlorocones, and how'd he make their boots. When I'm telling you about chlorocants, said Mr. Batten, it's the truth I'm telling you, and out of me own knowledge, for I spoke to a man as held one in his hand. He was me own mother's brother. Khan Kogan, rest his soul. Khan was six foot two, with a long white face. He had his head bashed in years before he was born, in some ruction or other, and the doctors at Japan him with a five-chillen piece beat flat. Dix interposed with a question as to the process, aim, and object of Japaning, but Mr. Batten passed the question by. He'd been bad enough for seeing fairies before the Japaned him, but after it, big gara, he was twice as bad. I was a slip of a lad at the time, but me hair nearly turned grey with the tails he'd tell of the good people and their doons. One night they turned him into a horse, and rode him half over the country, one chap on his back, and another running behind, shoving first prickles under his tail to make him bucklip. Another night it's a donkey he'd be, harnessed to a little cart, and being kicked in the belly and made to draw stones. Then it's a goose he'd be, running over the common, with his neck stretched out, squawking, and an old fairy-woman after him with a knife, till it fair drove him to the drink, though by the same token he didn't want much driving. And what does he do when his money was gone, but tear the fove-chilling piece they Japaned him with off the top of his head, and swaps it for a bottle of whisky, and that was the end of him. Mr. Batten paused to relight his pipe, which had gone out, and there was silence for a moment. The moon had risen, and the song of the surf on the reef filled the whole night with its lullaby. The broad lagoon lay waving and rippling in the moonlight in the incoming tide. Twice as broad it always looked, seen by moonlight or starlight, than when seen by day. Occasionally the splash of a great fish would cross the silence, and the ripple of it would pass a moment later across the plastered water. Big things happened in the lagoon at night, unseen by eyes from the shore. You would have found the wood behind them, had you walked through it, full of light. A tropic forest under a tropic moon is green as a sea cave. You can see the vine tendrils and the flowers, the orchids and tree-bowls all lit as by the light of an emerald-tinted day. Mr. Batten took a long piece of string from his pocket. It's bedtime, said he, and I'm going to tether Emilyne, for fear should be walking in her sleep and wandering away and being lost in the woods. I don't want to be tethered, said Emilyne. "'Tis for your own good I'm doing it,' replied Mr. Batten, fixing the string round her waist. Now, come along.' He led her like a dog on a leash to the tent, and tied the other end of the string to the skull, which was the tent's main prop and support. "'Now,' said he, if you be getting up and walking a boat in the night, it's down the tent will be on top of us all. And, sure enough, in the small hours of the morning, it was. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Fair Pictures in the Blue I don't want my old britches on. I don't want my old britches on. Dick was darting about naked on the sand. Mr. Batten after him with a pair of small trousers in his hand. A crab might just as well have attempted to chase an antelope. They had been on the island a fortnight, and Dick had discovered the keenest joy in life—to be naked, to be naked and wallow in the shallows of the lagoon, to be naked and sit drying in the sun, to be free from the curse of clothes, to shed civilisation on the beach in the form of breeches, boots, coat and hat, and to be one with the wind and the sun and the sea. The very first command Mr. Batten had given him on the second morning of their arrival was Strep and into the water, would ye? Dick had resisted at first, and Emmeline, who rarely wept, had stood weeping in her little chemise. But Mr. Batten was obdurate. The difficulty at first was to get them in. The difficulty now was to keep them out. Emmeline was sitting as nude as the day-star, drying in the morning sun after her dip, and watching Dick's evolutions on the sand. The lagoon had for the children far more attraction than the land. Woods where you might knock ripe bananas off the tree with a big cane, sands where golden lizards would scuttle about so tame that you might, with the little caution, seize them by the tail. A hilltop from which you might see to use Paddy's expression to the back of beyond. All these were fine enough in their way. But they were nothing to the lagoon. Deep down where the coral branches were, you might watch, whilst Paddy fished, all sorts of things, desporting on the sand patches and in between the coral tufts. Hermit crabs that had evicted welks, wearing the evicted one's shells, an obvious misfit. Sea anemones as big as roses, flowers that closed up in an irritable manner if you lowered the hook gently down and touched them. Extraordinary shells that walked about on feelers, elbowing the crabs out of the way, and terrorizing the welks. The overlords of the sand patches these, yet touch one on the back with a stone tied to a bit of string, and down he would go, flat, motionless, and feigning death. There was a lot of human nature lurking in the depths of the lagoon, comedy, and tragedy. An English rock pool has its marvels. You can fancy the marvels of this vast rock pool, nine miles round, and varying from a third to a half a mile broad, swarming with tropic life and flights of painted fishes, where the glittering albacore pass beneath the boat like a fire and a shadow, where the boat's reflection lay as clear on the bottom as though the water were air, where the sea, pacified by the reef, told like a little child its dreams. It suited the lazy humor of Mr. Button that he never pursued the lagoon more than half a mile or so on either side of the beach. He would bring the fish he caught ashore, and with the aid of his tinder-box and dead sticks, make a blazing fire on the sand. Cookfish and breadfruit and taro roots helped and hindered by the children. They fixed the tent amidst the trees at the edge of the chaparral, and made it larger and more abiding with the aid of the dinghy's sail. Amidst these occupations, wonders and pleasures, the children lost all count of the flight of time. They rarely asked about Mr. Lestrange. After a while they didn't ask about him at all. Children soon forget. End of Chapter 15. End of Part 2. Book 1, Chapter 16 of The Blue Lagoon. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Adrian Pretzellus. The Blue Lagoon by H. Devere, Stackpool. Part 3, Chapter 16. The Poetry of Learning. To forget the passage of time you must live in the open air, in a warm climate, with as few clothes as possible upon you. You must collect and cook your own food. Then, after a while, if you have no special ties to bind you to civilization, nature will begin to do for you what she does for the savage. You will recognize that it is possible to be happy without books or newspapers, letters or bills. You will recognize the part sleep plays in nature. After a month on the island, you might have seen Dick at one moment full of life and activity, helping Mr. Button to dig up a tarot route or whatnot. The next, culled up to sleep like a dog. Emmeline, the same. Profound and prolonged lapses into sleep, sudden awakenings into a world of pure air and dazzling light, the gaiety of color all around. Nature had indeed opened her doors to these children. One might have fancied her in an experimental mood, saying, Let me put these buds of civilization back into my nursery, and see what they will become, how they will blossom, and what will be the end of it all. Just as Emmeline had brought away her treasured box from the Northumberland, Dick had conveyed with him a small linen bag that chinked when shaken. It contained marbles, small olive green marbles, and middle-sized ones of various colors, glass marbles with splendid colored cores, and one old grandfather marble too big to be played with, but nonetheless to be worshipped. A god marble. Of course one cannot play at marbles on board ship, but one can play with them. They had been a great comfort to Dick on the voyage. He knew them each personally, and he would roll them out on the mattress of his bunk and review them nearly every day whilst Emmeline looked on. One day Mr. Button, noticing Dick and the girl kneeling opposite each other on a flat hard piece of sand near the water's edge, strolled up to see what they were doing. They were playing marbles. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth, watching and criticizing the game, pleased that the children were amused. Then he began to be amused himself, and in a few minutes more he was down on his knees taking a hand. Emmeline, a poor player and an unenthusiastic one, withdrawing in his favor. After that it was a common thing to see them playing together, the old sailor on his knees, one eye shut, and a marble against the nail of his horny thumb taking aim. Dick and Emmeline on the watch to make sure he was playing fair. Their shrill voices echoing amidst the coconut trees with cries of, Knuckle down, Patty, knuckle down! He entered into all their amusements just as one of themselves. On high and rare occasions Emmeline would open her precious box, spread its contents and give a tea-party, Mr. Button acting as guest or president as the case might be. It's your taty a lakin' mum, he would inquire, and Emmeline sipping at her tiny cup would invariably make answer. Another lump of sugar, if you please, Mr. Button, to which would come the stereotype to reply, take a dozen and welcome, and another cup for the good of your make. Then Emmeline would wash the things in imaginary water, replace them in the box, and everyone would lose their company manners and become quite natural again. Have you ever seen your name, Patty? asked Dick one morning. Seen me which? Your name? Ah, don't be asking me questions, replied the other. How the devil could I see my name? Wait, and I'll show you, replied Dick. He ran and fetched a piece of cane, and a minute later, on the salt-white sand, in the face of orthography and the sun, appeared these potentious letters. B-U-T-T-E-N Button Faith and it's a clever boy you are, said Mr. Button admiringly, as he leaned luxuriously against a coconut tree and contemplated Dick's handiwork. And that's my name, is it? What's the letters in it? Dick enumerated them. I'll teach you to do it too, he said. I'll teach you to write your name, Patty. Would you like to write your name, Patty? No, replied the other, who only wanted to be let smoke his pipe in peace. Me name's no use to me. But Dick, with the terrible gadfly tirelessness of childhood, was not to be put off, and the unfortunate Mr. Button had to go to school, despite himself. In a few days he could achieve the act of drawing upon the sand characters somewhat like the above, but not without prompting. Dick enumerated on each side of him, breathless for fear of a mistake. Which next? would ask the sweating scribe, the perspiration pouring from his forehead. Which next? and be quick, for it's mother'd I am. In, in, that's right, oh you're making it crooked. That's right, there. It's all there now, hurroo. Hurroo, would answer the scholar, waving his old hat over his own name, and, hurroo, would answer the coconut-grove echoes, whilst the far-faint hee-hee of the wheeling gulls on the reef would come over the blue lagoon, as if in acknowledgment of the deed, and encouragement. The appetite comes with teaching. The pleasantest mental exercise of childhood is the instruction of one's elders. Even Emmeline felt this. She took the geography class one day in a timid manner, putting her little hand first in the great horny fist of her friend. Mr. Button? Well, honey, I know geography. And what's that? asked Mr. Button. This stumped Emmeline for a moment. It's where places are, she said at last. Which places? inquired he. All sorts of places, replied Emmeline. Mr. Button? What is it, darling? Would you like the law and geography? I'm not wishful for learning, said the other, hurriedly. It makes me head-bust to hear them things they read out of books. Paddy, said Dick, who was strong on drawing that afternoon, look here. He drew the following on the sand. Here follows an illustration, a bad drawing of an elephant. That's an elephant, he said in a dubious voice. Mr. Button grunted, and the sound was by no means filled with enthusiastic assent. A chill fell on the proceedings. Dick wiped the elephant slowly and regretfully out, whilst Emmeline felt disheartened. Then her face suddenly cleared. The seraphic smile came onto it for a moment. A bright idea had struck her. Dickie, she said, draw Henry VIII. Dick's face brightened. He cleared the sand and drew the following figure. Here follows a series of vertical, horizontal, and oblique lines, resembling somewhat Henry VIII. That's not Henry VIII, he explained, but he will be in a minute. Daddy showed me how to draw him. He's nothing till he gets his hat on. Put his hat on! Put his hat on! implored Emmeline, gazing alternately from the figure on the sand to Mr. Button's face, watching for the delighted smile with which she was sure the old man would greet the great king when he appeared in all his glory. Then Dick, with a single stroke of the cane, put Henry's hat on. Here follows a series of vertical, horizontal, and oblique lines with a double-line vertical for Henry's hat. Now no portrait could be liker to his monk-hunting majesty than the above, created with one stroke of the cane, so to speak. Yet Mr. Button remained unmoved. I did it for Mrs. Sims, said Dick regretfully, and she said it was the image of him. Maybe the hat's not big enough, said Emmeline, turning her head from side to side as she gazed at the picture. It looked right, but she felt there must be something wrong, as Mr. Button did not applaud. Has not every true artist felt the same before the silence of some critic? Mr. Button tapped the ashes out of his pipe and rose to stretch himself, and the glass rose and trooped down to the lagoon edge, leaving Henry and his hat, a figure on the sand, to be obliterated by the wind. After a while as time went on, Mr. Button took his lessons as a matter of course, the small inventions of the children assisting their utterly untrustworthy knowledge. Knowledge, perhaps as useful as any other, there might be, amidst the lovely poetry of the palm trees and the sky. Days slipped into weeks, and weeks into months, without the appearance of a ship, a fact which gave Mr. Button very little trouble, and even less to his charges, who were far too busy and amused to bother about ships. The rainy season came on them with a rush, and, at the words, rainy season, do not conjure up in your mind the vision of a rainy day in Manchester. The rainy season here was quite a lively time. Torential showers, followed by bursts of sunshine, rainbows and rain dogs in the sky, and the delicious perfume of all manner of growing things on the ground, manner of growing things on the earth. After the rains the old sailor said he'd be after making a house of bamboos before the next rains came upon them, but maybe before that they'd be off the island. However, said he, I'd drive you a picture of what it'll be like when it's up, and on the sand he drew a figure like this. Here follows a figure looking remarkably like the letter X. Having thus drawn the plans of the building he leaned back against a cocoa palm and lit his pipe, but he had reckoned without dick. The boy had not the least wish to live in a house, but he had a keen desire to see one built, and to help build one. The ingenuity which is part of the multi-form basis of the American nature was aroused. How are you going to keep them from slipping if you tie them together like that? He asked, when Paddy had more fully explained his method. Which from slipping? The canes, one from the other. After you've fixed them, one crosses to the other. You drive a nail true to cross-piece and a rope over all. Have you any nails, Paddy? No, said Mr. Barton. I haven't. Then how are you going to build the house? Ask me no questions now. I want to smoke me pipe. But he had raised a devil difficult to lay. Morning, noon and night it was, Paddy, where are you going to begin the house? Or, Paddy, I guess I've got a way to make the canes stick together without nailing, till Mr. Barton, in despair, like a beaver, began to build. There was a great cane cutting in the cane-break above, and when sufficient had been procured, Mr. Barton struck work for three days. He would have struck altogether, but he had found a task-master. The tireless dick, young and active, with no original laziness in his composition, no old bones to rest or pipe to smoke, kept after him like a blue-bottle fly. It was in vain that he tried to stave him off with stories about fairies and chlorocorns. Dick wanted to build a house. Mr. Barton didn't. He wanted to rest. He did not mind fishing or climbing a coconut tree, which he did to admiration by passing a rope round himself and the tree, knotting it and using it as a support during the climb. But house-building was monotonous work. He said he had no nails. Dick countered by showing how the canes could be held together by notching them. And faith, but it's a clever boy you are, said the weary one, admiringly, when the other had explained his method. Then come along, Paddy, and stick him up. And Mr. Barton said he had no rope, that he'd have to think about it, that tomorrow or the next day he'd be after getting some notion how to do it without rope. But Dick pointed out that the brown cloth, which nature has wrapped around the cocoa palm stalks, would do instead of rope if cut in strips. Then the badgered one gave in. They laboured for a fortnight at the thing, and at the end of that time had produced a rough sort of wigwam on the borders of the chaperrill. Out on the reef, to which they often rode in the dinghy when the tide was low, deep pools would be left, and in the pools, fish. Paddy said that if they had a spear they might be able to spear some of the fish, as he had seen the natives do, away beyond in Tahiti. Dick inquired as to the nature of a spear, and the next day produced a ten-foot cane sharpened at the end after the fashion of quill-pen. Sure, what's the use of that? said Mr. Barton. You might jab it into a fish, but he'd be off in two ticks. It's the barb that holds them. Next day the indefatigable one produced the cane amended. He had whittled it down about three feet from the end, and on one side had carved a fairly efficient barb. It was good enough, at all events, to spear a grouper that evening in the sunlit pools of the reef at low tide. There aren't any potatoes here, said Dick, one day after the second rains. We vet them all months ago, replied Paddy. How do potatoes grow, inquired Dick? Grow, is it? Why, they grow in the ground. Where else would they grow? He explained the process of potato planting, cutting them into pieces so that there was an eye in each piece, and so forth. Having done this, said Mr. Barton, he just chocked the pieces in the ground. The eyes grow, green leaves pop up, and then, if you dig the roots up maybe six months after, you'd find bushels of potatoes in the ground. Ones as big as your head, and weeny ones. It's like a family of children. Some's big, and some's little. And there they are in the ground, and all you have to do is to take a fork, and dig up a pot full of them, with a twist of your wrist, and many a time I've done it in the old days. Why didn't we do that, asked Dick? Do what? Plant some of the potatoes. And where'd we have found the spade to plant them with? I guess we could have fixed up a spade, replied the boy. I made a spade at home, out of a piece of an old board once. Daddy helped. Well, skelpa fidja, and make a spade now, replied the other, who wanted to be quiet and think, and you and Emilyne can dig into sand. Emilyne was sitting nearby, stringing together some gorgeous blossoms on a tendril of liana. Months of sand and ozone had made a considerable difference in the child. She was as brown as a gypsy and freckled, not much taller, but twice as plump. Her eyes had lost considerably that look, as though she were contemplating futurity. And immensity, not as abstractions, but as concrete images. And she had lost the habit of sleepwalking. The shock of the tent coming down on the first night she was tethered to the skyle had broken her of it, helped by the new, healthful conditions of life, the sea bathing, and the eternal open air. There is no narcotic to excel fresh air. Months of semi-savagery had also made a good deal of difference in Dick's appearance. He was two inches taller than on the day they had landed. Freckled and tanned, he had the appearance of a boy of twelve. He was the promise of a fine man. He was not a good-looking child, but he was healthy-looking, with a jolly laugh and a daring, almost impudent expression of face. And the question of the children's clothes was beginning to vex the mind of the old sailor. The climate was a suit of clothes in itself. One was much happier with almost nothing on. Of course there were changes of temperature, but they were slight. Eternal summer, broken by torrential rains and occasionally a storm. That was the climate of the island. Still the children couldn't go about with nothing on. He took some of the striped flannel and made Emmeline a kilt. It was funny to see him sitting on the sand, Emmeline standing before him with her garment round her waist, being tied on. He with a mouthful of pins, and the housewife with the scissors, needles and thread by his side. Turn to the left a bit more, he'd say. Easy does it. Steady so, musher musher. Where's them scissors? Dick, behold in the end at this bit of string till I get the stitches in behind. Does that hang comfortable? Well, and you're the trouble and all. How's that? That's easier, is it? Lift your foot till I see if it comes to your knees. Now off with it, and leave me alone till I stitch the tags to it. It was the mixture of a skirt and the idea of a sail. For it had two rows of reef points. A most ingenious idea, as it could be reefed if the child wanted to go paddling, or in windy weather. End of Chapter 16. Book 1, Chapters 17 and 18 of The Blue Lagoon. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Adrian Pretzellus. The Blue Lagoon by H. Deveree Stackpool. Chapter 17. The Devil's Cask. One morning, about a week after they on which the old sailor, to use his own expression, had bent a skirt on Emmeline, Dick came through the woods and across the sands running. He had been on the hilltop. Paddy, he cried to the old man who was fixing a hook on a fishing line, there's a ship. It did not take Mr. Button long to reach the hilltop, and there she was, beating up for the island. Bluff bowed and squat, the figure of an older Dutch woman, and telling of her trade a league off. It was just after the rains, the sky was not yet clear of clouds, you could see showers away at sea, and the sea was green and foam capped. There was the trying-out gear, there were the boats, the crow's nest, and all complete, and labelling her a whaler. She was a ship, no doubt, but Paddy Button would as soon as gone on board a shipman by devils, and captain by Lucifer, as on board a South Sea whaleman. He had been there before, and he knew. He hid the children under a large banion, and told them not to stir or breathe till he came back, for the ship was the devil's own ship, and if the men on board caught them they'd skin them alive and all. Then he made for the beach. He collected all the things out of the wigwam, and all the old truck in the shape of boots and old clothes, and stowed them away in the dinghy. He would have destroyed the house if he could, but he hadn't time. Then he rode the dinghy a hundred yards down the lagoon to the left, and moored her under the shade of an Eoa, whose branches grew right over the water. Then he came back through the coconut grove on foot, and peered through the trees over the lagoon to see what was to be seen. The wind was blowing dead on for the opening in the reef, and the old whaleman came along breasting the swell with her bluff-bows, and entered the lagoon. There was no Ledzman in her chains. She just came in as if she knew all the soundings by heart, as probably she did, for these whaleman knew every hole and corner in the Pacific. The anchor fell with a splash, and she sprung to it, making a strange enough picture as she floated on the blue mirror, backed by the graceful palm tree on the reef. Then Mr. Button, without waiting to see the boats lowered, made back to his charges, and the three camped in the woods that night. The next morning the whaleman was off and away, leaving as a token of her visit the white sand all trampled, an empty bottle, half an old newspaper, and the wigwam torn to pieces. The old sailor cursed her and her crew, for the incident had brought a new exercise into his lazy life. Every day now at noon he had to climb the hill, on the lookout for whaleman. Whaleman hunted his dreams, though I doubt he willingly have gone on board even a royal male steamer. He was quite happy where he was. After long years of the folksal, the island was a change indeed. He had tobacco enough to last him for an indefinite time, the children for companions, and food at his elbow. He would have been entirely happy if the island had only been supplied by nature with a public house. The spirit of hilarity and good fellowship, however, who suddenly discovered this error on the part of nature, rectified it, as will be presently seen. The most disastrous result of the whaleman's visit was not the destruction of the house, but the disappearance of Emmeline's box. Hunt high or hunt low, it could not be found. Mr. Barton in his hurry must have forgotten it when he removed the things to the dinghy. At all events it was gone. Probably one of the crew of the whaleman had found it and carried it off with him. No one could say. It was gone, and there was the end of the matter, and the beginning of a great attribulation that lasted Emmeline for a week. She was intensely fond of coloured things, coloured flowers especially, and she had the prettiest way of making them into a wreath for her own or someone else's head. It was the hat-making instinct that was at work in her, perhaps. At all events it was a feminine instinct for Dick made no wreaths. One morning, as she was sitting by the old sailor, engaged in stringing shells, Dick came running along the edge of the grove. He had just come out of the wood and he seemed to be looking for something. Then he found what he was in search of, a big shell, and with it in his hand made back to the wood. Item, his dress was a piece of coconut cloth tied round his middle. Why he wore it at all, goodness knows, for he would just as often as not be running about stark naked. I found something paddy, he cried as he disappeared among the trees. What have you found, Pipe Demeline, who was always interested in new things? Something funny came back from amidst the trees. Presently he returned, but he was not running now. He was walking slowly and carefully, holding the shell as if it contained something precious that he was afraid would escape. Paddy, I turned over the old barrel and it had a cork thing in it, and I pulled it out and the barrel is full of awfully funny smelling stuff. I brought some for you to see. He gave the shell into the old sailor's hands. There was about half a jill of yellow liquid in the shell. Paddy smelt it, tasted, and gave a shout. Wrong big aura! What is it, Paddy? asked Demeline. Where did you say you got it? In the old barrel, did you say? asked Mr. Button, who seemed dazed and stunned as if by a blow. Yes, I pulled the cork thing out. Did you put it back? Yes. Oh, glory to God! Here have I been, time out of mind, sitting in an old empty barrel with me tongue hanging down by me heels for the want of a drink, and it full of rum, all the while. He took a sip of the stuff, tossed the lot off, closed his lips tight to keep in the fumes, and shut one eye. Emmeline laughed. Mr. Button scrambled to his feet. They followed him through the chaparral till they reached the water-source. There lay the little green barrel. Turned over by the restless dick, it lay with its bung pointing to the leaves above. You could see the hollow it had made in the soft soil during the years. So green was it, and so like an object of nature, a bit of old tree-bowl, or a lichen-stained boulder, that, though the whale-man had actually watered from the source, its real nature had not been discovered. Mr. Button tapped on it with the butt-end of the shell. It was nearly full. Why it had been left there, by whom or how, there was no one to tell. The old lichen-covered skulls might have told. Could they have spoken? We'll roll it down to beach," said Paddy, when he had taken another taste of it. He gave Dick a sip. The boy spat it out and made a face. Then, pushing the barrel before them, they began to roll it downhill to the beach. Emmeline running before them, crowned with flowers. CHAPTER 18 THE RAT HUNT They had dinner at noon. Paddy knew how to cook fish, island fashion, wrapping them in leaves, and baking them in a hole in the ground in which a fire had been previously lit. They had fish, and taro-root, baked, and green coconuts. And after dinner, Mr. Button filled a big shell with rum and lit his pipe. The rum had been good originally, and age had improved it. Used as he was to the appalling balloon juice sold in the drinking dens of the Barbary Coast at San Francisco or the public houses of the docks, this stuff was nectar. Joe Viality radiated from him it was infectious. The children felt that some happy influence had fallen upon their friend. Usually after dinner he was drowsy and wishful to be quiet. Today he told them stories of the sea and sang them songs, shanties. I'm a flying fish sailor, come back from Hong Kong. Blow the moon down. Blow the moon down, bullies, blow the moon down. Oh, give us time to blow the moon down. You're a dirty black baller, come back from New York. You blow the moon down. Blow the moon down, bullies, blow the moon down. Oh, give us some time to blow the moon down. Oh, give us time to blow the moon down. Echo Dick and Demeline. Up above in the trees, the bright-eyed birds were watching them. Such a happy party. They had all the appearance of picnickers, and the song echoed amongst the coconut trees, and the wind carried it over the lagoon to where the seagulls were wheeling and screaming and the foam was thundering on the reef. That evening Mr. Button, feeling inclined for Joe Viality, and not wishing the children to see him under the influence, rolled the barrel through the coconut grove to a little clearing by the edge of the water. There, when the children were in bed and asleep, he repaired with some green coconuts and a shell. He was generally musical when amusing himself in this fashion, and Demeline, waking up during the night, heard his voice born through the moon-lit coconut grove by the wind. There was five or six old drunken sailors standing before the bar, and Larry, he was serving them from the big fife-gallon jar, hoist up the flag. Long may it wave, long may it lead us to the glory or the grave. Steady boys, steady sound the jubilee, for a barbalon has fallen and the slaves are all set free. Next morning the musician awoke beside the cask. He had not a trace of a headache or any bad feeling, but he made Dick do the cooking, and he lay in the shade of the coconut trees, with his head on a pillow made out of an old coat rolled up, twiddling his thumbs, smoking his pipe, and discoursing about the old days, half to himself and half to his companions. That night he had another musical evening all to himself, and so it went on for a week. Then he began to lose his appetite and sleep, and one morning Dick found him sitting on the sand looking very queer indeed, as well he might, for he had been seeing things since dawn. What is it, Paddy? said the boy running up, followed by Emmeline. Mr. Button was staring at a point on the sand close by. He had his right hand raised after the manner of a person who is trying to catch a fly. Suddenly he made a grab at the sand, and then opened his hand wide to see what he had caught. What is it, Paddy? Ah, the chlorocon! replied Mr. Button. Ah, dressed in green he was. Ah, musher, musher, but it's only pretendin' I am. The complaint from which he was suffering has this strange thing about it, that, though the patient sees rats or snakes or what not, as real looking as the real things, and though they possess his mind for a moment, almost immediately he recognizes that he is suffering from a delusion. The children laughed, and Mr. Button laughed in a stupid sort of way. Ah, sure, it was only a game I was playing. There was no chlorocon at all. It's when I drink rum it puts into me head to play games like that. Oh, by the holy poker, there's red rats coming out of the sand. He got on his hands and knees, and scuttled off towards the coconut trees, looking over his shoulder with a bewildered expression on his face. He would have risen to fly, only he dared not stand up. The children laughed, and danced round him as he crawled. Look at the rats, Paddy! Look at the rats! cried Dick. There, there in front of me cried the afflicted one, making a vicious grab at an imaginary rodent's tail. Run down the buses! Now, they're gone! Mush, but it's a fool I'm making of myself. Go on, Paddy! said Dick. Don't stop. Look there, there's more rats coming after you. Ah, wished would ye, replied Paddy, taking his seat on the sand and wiping his brow. They're off me now. The children stood by, disappointed of their game. Good acting appeals to children as much as to grown-up people. They stood waiting for another excess of humour to take the comedian, and they had not to wait long. A thing like a flayed horse came out of the lagoon and up on the beach, and this time Button did not crawl away. He got on his feet and ran. It's a horse that's after me, Dick. Dick, hit him with a scalp. Dick, Dick, drive him away. Haroo! Haroo! cried Dick, chasing the afflicted one, who was running in a wide circle. His broad red face slewed over his left shoulder. Go it, Paddy! Go it, Paddy! Keep off me, ye bastard! shouted Paddy. Holy Mary, mother of God! I land ye a kick with me foot if ye's come nigh me. Emlyn! Emlyn! Come betonus! He tripped and over he went on the sand. The indefatigable Dick beating him with a little switch he had picked up to make him continue. I am better now, but I am near war out, said Mr Button, sitting up on the sand. But, bidad, if I'm chased by any more things like them, it's into the sea I'll be dashing. Dick, lend me your arm. He took Dick's arm and wandered over to the shade of the trees. Here he threw himself down and told the children to leave him to sleep. They recognized that the game was over and left him. And he slept for six hours on end. It was the first real sleep he had had for several days. When he awoke he was well, but very shaky. End of chapter 18. Book 1, chapters 19 and 20 of The Blue Lagoon. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, read by Adrian Pretzelis. The Blue Lagoon by H. Devere Stackpool. Chapter 19. Starlight on the Foam. Mr Button saw no more rats, much to Dick's disappointment. He was off the drink. At dawn next day he got up, refreshed by a second sleep, and wandered down to the edge of the lagoon. The opening in the reef faced the east, and the light of the dawn came rippling in with the flood tide. It's a beast, I've been, said the repentant one, a brute beast. He was quite wrong. As a matter of fact, he was only a man, beset and betrayed. He stood for a while, cursing the drink, and them that sells it. Then he determined to put himself out of the way of temptation, pull the bung out of the barrel, and let the contents escape. Such a thought never occurred to him, or if it did was instantly dismissed. For though an old sailor man may curse the drink, good rhyme is to him a sacred thing, and to empty half a little barrel of it into the sea would be an act almost equivalent to child murder. He put the cask into the dinghy and rode it over to the reef. There he placed it in the shelter of a great lump of coral, and rode back. Paddy had been trained all his life to rhythmical drunkenness. Four months or so had generally elapsed between his bouts, sometimes six. It all depended on the length of the voyage. Six months now elapsed before he felt even an incarnation to look at the rum cask, that tiny dark spot away on the reef. And it was just as well. For during those six months another whale-ship arrived, watered, and was avoided. Blisteret, said he, the sea here seems to breed whale-ships, and nothing but whale-ships. It's like bugs in a bed, you kill one, and then another comes. How some ever we've shut of them for a while. He walked down to the lagoon edge, looked out the little dark spot, and whistled. Then he walked back to prepare dinner. That little dark spot began to trouble him after a while. Not it, but the spirit it contained. Days grew long and weary, the days that had been so short and pleasant. To the children there was no such thing as time. Having absolute and perfect health they enjoyed happiness, as far as mortals can enjoy it. Emmeline's highly strong nervous system, it is true, developed a headache, when she had been too long in the glare of the sun. But they were few, and far between. The spirit in the little cask had been whispering across the lagoon for some weeks. At last it began to shout. Mr. Button, metaphorically speaking, stopped his ears. He busied himself with the children as much as possible, he made another garment for Emmeline, and cut Dick's hair with the scissors, a job which was generally performed once in a couple of months. One night, to keep the rum from troubling his head, he told them the story of Jack Dority and the Mero, the sea people, which is well known on the western coast. The Mero takes Jack to dinner at the bottom of the sea, and shows him the lobster pots, wherein he keeps the souls of old sailor men. And then they have dinner, and the Mero produces a big bottle of rum. It was a fatal story for him to remember and recount, for, after his companions were asleep, the vision of the Mero and Jack hobnobbing, and the idea of the jollity of it, rose before him, and excited a thirst for joviality not to be resisted. There were some green coconuts that he had plucked that day, lying in a little heap under the tree, half a dozen or so. He took several of these and a shell, found the dinghy where it was moored to the Aoa tree, unmoored her, and pushed off into the lagoon. The lagoon and sky were full of stars. In the dark depths of the water might have been seen phosphorescent gleams of passing fish, and the thunder of the surf on the reef filled the night with its song. He fixed the boat's painter carefully round a spike of coral, and landed on the reef, and, with a shellful of rum and coconut lemonade mixed half and half, he took his perch on a high ledge of coral, from whence a view of the sea and the coral strand could be obtained. On a moonlight night it was fine to sit there and watch the great breakers come in, all marbled and clouded and rainbowed with spindrift and sheets of spray. But the snow and the song of them under the diffused lights of the stars produced a more indescribably beautiful and strange effect. The tide was going out now, and Mr. Button, as he sat smoking his pipe and drinking his grog, could see bright mirrors here and there where the water lay in rock pools. When he had contemplated these signs for a considerable time in complete contentment, he returned to the lagoon side of the reef and sat down beside the little barrel. Then, after a while, if you had been standing on the strand opposite, you would have heard scraps of song born across the quivering water of the lagoon. Sailing down, sailing down on the coast of Barbary. Whether the coast of Barbary in question is that at San Francisco, or the true and proper coast, does not matter. It is an old-time song, and when you hear it, whether on a reef of coral or a granite key, you may feel assured that an old-time sailor man is singing it, and that the old-time sailor man is bemused. Presently the dinghy put off from the reef. The skulls broke the starlit waters, and great shaking circles of light made a rhythmical answer to the slow and steady creek of the thole pins against the leather. He tied up to the oowa, saw that the skulls were safely shipped, then, breathing heavily, he cast off his boots for fear of waking the children. As the children were sleeping more than two hundred yards away, this was a needless precaution, especially as the intervening distance was mostly soft sand. Green coconut juice and rum mixed together are pleasant enough to drink, but they are better drunk separately. Combined, not even the brain of an old sailor can make anything out of them but mist and muddlement, that is to say in the way of thought. In the way of action, they can make him do a lot. They made Paddy Button swim the lagoon. The recollection came to him all at once, as he was walking up the strand towards the wigwam that he had left the dinghy tied to the reef. The dinghy was, as a matter of fact, safe and sound tied to the oowa, but Mr. Button's memory told him it was tied to the reef. How he had crossed the lagoon was of no importance at all to him. The fact that he had crossed without the boat, yet without getting wet, did not appear to him strange. He had no time to deal with trifles like these. The dinghy had to be fetched across the lagoon, and there was only one way of fetching it. So he came back down the beach to the water's edge, cast down his boots, cast off his coat, and plunged in. The lagoon was wide, but in his present state of mind he would have swum the hellish pond. His figure gone down from the beach. The night resumed its majesty and aspect of meditation. So lit was the lagoon by starshine that the head of the swimmer could be distinguished away out in the midst of circles of light. Also, as the head neared the reef, a dark triangle that came shearing through the water passed the palm tree at the pier. It was the night patrol of the lagoon who had heard in some mysterious manner that a drunken sailor man was making trouble in his waters. Looking, one listened, hand on heart, for the scream of the arrested one. Yet it did not come. The swimmer, scrambling onto the reef in an exhausted manner, forgetful evidently of the object for which he had returned, made for the rum-kask, and fell down beside it as though sleep had touched him, instead of death. Chapter 20 The Dreamer on the Reef I wonder where Paddy is, cried Dick next morning. He was coming out of the chaperrill, pulling a dead branch after him. He's left his coat on the sand and the tinder-box in it, so I'll make fire. There's no use waiting. I want my breakfast. Mother! He trod the dead stick with his naked feet, breaking it into pieces. Emmeline sat on the sand and watched him. Emmeline had two gods of a sort, Paddy Button and Dick. Paddy was almost an esoteric god, wrapped up in the fumes of tobacco and mystery, the god of rolling ships and creaking masts. The masts and vast sail spaces of the Northumberland were an enduring vision in her mind. The deity who had lifted her from a little boat into this marvellous place where the birds were coloured and the fish were painted, where life was never dull and the skies scarcely ever grey. Dick, the other deity, was a much more understandable personage, but no less admirable as a companion and protector. In the two years and five months of island life he had grown nearly three inches. He was as strong as a boy of twelve and could scull the boat almost as well as Paddy himself, and light a fire. Indeed, during the last few months Mr. Button, engaged in resting his bones and contemplating rum as an abstract idea, had left the cooking and fishing and general gathering of food as much as possible to Dick. It amuses the creature to pretend he's doing things, he would say, as he watched Dick delving into the earth to make a little oven, island fashion, for the cooking of fish and what not. Come along him, said Dick, piling the broken wood on top of some rotten hibiscus sticks, give me the tinderbox. He got a spark onto a bit of punk, and then he blew at it, looking not unlike Eolus as represented on those old Dutch charts that smell of Schneidam and Snuff, and give one mermaids and angels, instead of soundings. The fire was soon sparkling and crackling, and he heaped on sticks in profusion, for there was plenty of fuel, and he wanted to cook breadfruit. The breadfruit varies in size according to age, and in colour according to season. These that Dick was preparing to cook were as large as small melons, two would be more than enough for three people's breakfast. They were green and knobbly on the outside, and they suggested to the mind unripe lemons, rather than bread. He put them in the embers just as you put potatoes to roast, and presently they sizzled and spat little venomous jets of steam, then they cracked, and the white inner substance became visible. He cut them open, and took the core out, the core is not fit to eat, and they were ready. Meanwhile, Emeline, under his directions, had not been idle. There were in the lagoon, there are in several other tropical lagoons I know of, a fish which I can only describe as a golden herring, a bronze herring it looks when landed, but when swimming away down against the background of coral brains and white sand patches, it has the sheen of burnished gold. It is as good to eat as to look at, and Emeline was carefully toasting several of them on a piece of cane. The juice of the fish kept the cane from charring, though there were accidents at times when a whole fish would go into the fire amidst shouts of derision from dick. She made a pretty enough picture as she knelt, the skirt round her waist, looking not unlike a striped bath towel, her small face intent and filled with the seriousness of the job on hand, and her lips puckered out at the heat of the fire. It's so hot, she cried in self-defense, after the first of the accidents. Of course it's hot, said Dick, if you stick to the fluid of the fire. How often has Paddy told you to keep off to windward of it? I don't know which is which, confessed the unfortunate Emeline, who was an absolute failure at everything practical, who could neither row nor fish, nor throw a stone, and who, though they had been on the island at twenty-eight months or so, could not even swim. You mean to say, said Dick, that you don't know where the wind comes from? Yes, I know that. Well, that's to windward. I didn't know that. Well, you know it now. Yes, I know it now. Well then, come to windward of the fire. Why didn't you ask the meaning of it before? I did, said Emeline. I asked Mr. Button one day, and he told me a lot about it. He said, if he was to spit to windward and a person was to stand to the fluid of him, he'd be a fool. And he said, if a ship went too much to the fluid, she went on the rocks, but I didn't understand what he meant. Dicky, I wonder where he is? Paddy, cried Dick, pausing in the act of splitting open a breadfruit. Echoes came from amidst the coconut trees, but nothing more. Come on, said Dick, I'm not going to wait for him. He may have gone to fetch up the nightlines. They sometimes put down nightlines in the lagoon, and fall asleep over them. Now, though Emeline honoured Mr. Button as a minor deity, Dick had no illusions at all upon the matter. He admired Paddy because he could not, and splice, and climb a coconut tree, and exercise his sailor craft in other admirable ways. But he felt the old man's limitations. They ought to have had potatoes now, but they had eaten both potatoes and the possibility of potatoes when they consumed the content of that half sack. Young as he was, Dick felt the absolute thriftlessness of this proceeding. Emeline did not. She never thought of potatoes, though she could have told you the colour of all the birds on the island. Then again the house wanted rebuilding, and Mr. Button said every day he would set about seeing after it tomorrow. And on the morrow it would be tomorrow. The necessities of the life they led were a stimulus to the daring and active mind of the boy, but he was always being checked by the go-as-you-please methods of his elder. Dick came of the people who made sewing machines and typewriters. Mr. Button came of a people notable for ballads, tender hearts, and pothine. That was the main difference. Paddy again cried the boy when he had eaten as much as he wanted. Hello, where are you? They listened, but no answer came. A bright-hued bird flew across the sand-space. A lizard scuttled along the glistening sand. The reef spoke, and the wind in the treetops. But Mr. Button made no reply. Wait, said Dick. He ran through the grove toward the Eowa where the dinghy was moored. Then he returned. The dinghy is all right, he said. Where on earth can he be? I don't know, said Emma Lyne, upon whose heart a filling of loneliness had fallen. Let's go up the hill, said Dick. Perhaps we'll find him there. They went up hill through the wood past the water-course. Every now and then Dick would call out, and echoes would answer. There were quaint, moist-voiced echoes amongst the trees, or a bevy of birds would take to flight. The little waterfall gurgled and whispered, and the great banana leaves spread their shade. Come on, said Dick, when he had called again without receiving a reply. They found the hilltop, and the great boulder stood casting its shadow in the sun. The morning breeze was blowing, the sea sparkling, the reef flashing, the foliage of the island waving in the wind like the flames of a green-flamed torch. A deep swell was spreading itself across the bosom of the Pacific. Some hurricane, away beyond the navigators or Gilberts, had sent this message, and was finding its echo here, a thousand miles away, in the deep thunder of the reef. Nowhere else in the world could you get such a picture, such a combination of splendour and summer, such a vision of freshness and strength, and the delight of morning. It was the smallness of the island, perhaps, that closed the charm and made it perfect. Just a bunch of foliage and flowers, set in the midst of the blowing wind and sparkling blue. Suddenly, Dick, standing beside Emmeline on the rock, pointed with his finger to the reef near the opening. There he is, cried he. End of chapter 20