of the inn to sell us half a bottle of milk for G——­’s breakfast to-morrow—­as he will not drink the preserved milk—­and so back again on board the tug.  The difficulty about milk and butter is the first trouble which besets a family traveling in these parts.  Everywhere milk is scarce and poor, and the butter such as no charwoman would touch in England.  In vain does one behold from the sea thousands of acres of what looks like undulating green pasturage, and inland the same waving green hillocks stretch as far as the eye can reach:  there is never a sheep or cow to be seen, and one hears that there is no water, or that the grass is sour, or that there is a great deal of sickness about among the animals in that locality.  Whatever the cause, the result is the same—­namely, that one has to go down on one’s knees for a cupful of milk, which is but poor, thin stuff at its best, and that Irish salt butter out of a tub is a costly delicacy.

Having secured this precious quarter of a bottle of milk, for which I was really as grateful as though it had been the Koh-i-noor, we hastened back to the wharf and got on board the little tug again.  “Now for the bridge!” cry G——­ and I, for has not Captain Florence promised us a splendid but safe tossing across the bar?  And faithfully he and the bar and the boat keep their word, for we are in no danger, it seems, and yet we appear to leap like a race-horse across the strip of sand, receiving a staggering buffet first on one paddle-wheel and then on the other from the angry guardian breakers, which seem sworn foes of boats and passengers.  Again and again are we knocked aside by huge billows, as though the poor little tug were a walnut-shell; again and again do we recover ourselves, and blunder bravely on, sometimes with but one paddle in the water, sometimes burying our bowsprit in a big green wave too high to climb, and dashing right through it as fast as if we shut our eyes and went at everything.  The spray flies high over our heads, G——­ and I are drenched over and over again, but we shake the sparkling water off our coats, for all the world like Newfoundland dogs, and are all right again in a moment, “Is that the very last?” asks G——­ reluctantly as we take our last breaker like a five-barred gate, flying, and find ourselves safe and sound, but quivering a good deal, in what seems comparatively smooth water.  Is it smooth, though?  Look at the Florence and all the other vessels.  Still at it, see-saw, backward and forward, roll, roll, roll!  How thankful we all are to have escaped a long day of sickening, monotonous motion!  But there is the getting on board to be accomplished, for the brave little tug dare not come too near to her big sister steamboat or she would roll over on her.  So we signal for a boat, and quickly the largest which the Florence possesses is launched and manned—­no easy task in such a sea, but accomplished in the smartest and most seamanlike fashion.  The sides of the tug are low, so it is not very difficult to scramble