Harry Hazel
'THE shades of night were just descending, and the sombre shadows of a cloudy, moonless evening were rapidly commingling into one huge outline, what, but an hour prior, had been a lovely tropical landscape. All was tranquil, quiet, and seemingly enjoying that repose which the Omnipotent, in His wisdom, has made the business of the dark hours. The light land-breeze, as it came softly through the tree-tops and floated oceanward, sighed scarcely louder than an Eolian harp; the small waves, as they rippled on the smooth sand-beach, murmured with a drowsy, dreamy sound, as if they were moving unconsciously, like an infant in its slumbers; and the notes of the myriad insects, whose tiny voices arose from the forest’s bosom, resembled strains of fairy harmony, sounding from some sweet spirit-land.'
