greek hotels - which has no peer, a miracle of loveliness, sways with life. The heifers only now remain to be shipped. The clerk lets down a cord, and with one friendly pull, and a mighty heave from below, the heifers arrive, helpless, the sport of fate. But the instant the cords are loosened they stagger to their feet, and with a slap on the buttocks from the clerk go sprawling and trembling across the deck. Cattle it seems exist for man. For a second longer the boat runs with the speeding ship ; then suddenly released, she drops back into her own pellucid haven ; the man in her as cool and unconcerned as any old Moslem of Stamboul. We make for the Paro-Naxia channel, past the high cliffs of Sikinos ; the old Kastro of Pholegandros on the brink of its precipice passes slowly out of sight ; and I wonder if I shall ever see it again. The clear vision of morning, the lustre of dawn, are lost in the monotones of noon. The island colours fade; and one who passed by at this hour might overlook the loveliest and the wildest of the Cyclades. We pass by Ios and Homeros and Heracleia ; across whose waters the Cretan ships go dark and shadowy, like ghosts of the Minoan age. The islands change from the great heights of Naxos-Zea, Phanari, and Coronos-to small ones scarcely visible in the blinding light. Santorin's white cliffs of Pumice glow afar off ; Messavouno turns pink in the sunset. Each island has its own character, its own scenery, its own habits, its own pride, its own history, and its own soul. The sea falls still without a ripple on its surface. The LotusEaters knew no greater peace. Each island stands alone in the outline of its own beauty. And may we not believe that over such a sea at such an hour Homer came voyaging ? and that stop overtook him, and his companions laid him, old and blind and tired, on the isle that claims his grave ?

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Travel in Greece: Page 384

CHAPTER XXI - DEPARTURE

which has no peer, a miracle of loveliness, sways with life. The heifers only now remain to be shipped. The clerk lets down a cord, and with one friendly pull, and a mighty heave from below, the heifers arrive, helpless, the sport of fate. But the instant the cords are loosened they stagger to their feet, and with a slap on the buttocks from the clerk go sprawling and trembling across the deck. Cattle it seems exist for man. For a second longer the boat runs with the speeding ship ; then suddenly released, she drops back into her own pellucid haven ; the man in her as cool and unconcerned as any old Moslem of Stamboul.
We make for the Paro-Naxia channel, past the high cliffs of Sikinos ; the old Kastro of Pholegandros on the brink of its precipice passes slowly out of sight ; and I wonder if I shall ever see it again.
The clear vision of morning, the lustre of dawn, are lost in the monotones of noon. The island colours fade; and one who passed by at this hour might overlook the loveliest and the wildest of the Cyclades. We pass by Ios and Homeros and Heracleia ; across whose waters the Cretan ships go dark and shadowy, like ghosts of the Minoan age. The islands change from the great heights of Naxos-Zea, Phanari, and Coronos-to small ones scarcely visible in the blinding light. Santorin's white cliffs of Pumice glow afar off ; Messavouno turns pink in the sunset. Each island has its own character, its own scenery, its own habits, its own pride, its own history, and its own soul.
The sea falls still without a ripple on its surface. The LotusEaters knew no greater peace. Each island stands alone in the outline of its own beauty. And may we not believe that over such a sea at such an hour Homer came voyaging ? and that stop overtook him, and his companions laid him, old and blind and tired, on the isle that claims his grave ?