Отрывок из книги
Louisa Anne Meredith
Published by Good Press, 2021
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As we mount at our own gate, we glance over our wide home view, ere we depart. There lies the bay, blue as the heavens, save where a passing cloud drops a shadow, and weaves a green ribbon across its broad bosom. On the opposite side, twelve or fifteen miles distant, rise the granite peaks of the Schouten mountains—all cliffs, ravines, and many-folded slopes, with turret rocks and towers, that Cyclopaean Architects may have fashioned for the pre-Adamites—and deep precipitous gorges, curtained and canopied by forests of our sombre evergreen trees and shrubs. On clear sunny days, the sea-washed crags and stretches of snowy quartz-pebble beach, are all seen perfectly clear and sharp from the other side of the bay. A tiny black object is visible in the Schouten Passage (or strait), and a lengthening puff of smoke therefrom tells us that the East-coast steamer is coming in from her trip to Wabbs Harbour, Falmouth, and George's river; where she steams periodically, carrying thence to Hobarton, butter, cheese, coals (from the mines at Douglas river and the Schouten Island), apples, wool, wheat, and sundries, passengers included.
Nearer to our shore, we see flocks of gannets, either skimming along high above the sea, or poised for an instant, like silver stars; till, one after another, dozens of them pounce down on the shoal of fish below.
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