The stalled ox is not here, nor the fatted calf, nor any of the mere advantages of the table; but there is the varied harvest of the sea, and all the freshness of an isle clean and green.  The heat, the clatter, the stuffy odours, the toilsomeness, the fatigue of town life are abandoned; the careless quiet, the calm, the refreshment of the whole air, the tonic of the wide sea are gained.  From the moment the sun illumines our hills and isles with glowing yellow until it drops in fiery splendour suddenly out of sight leaving a band of gleaming red above the purple western range, and a rippling red path across to Australia, the whole realm of nature seems ours to command.

OFFICIAL LANDING

Dunk Island was not selected haphazard as an abiding place.  By camping-out expeditions and the cautious gleaning of facts from those who had the repute of knowing the country, useful information had been acquired unobtrusively.  We were determined to have the best obtainable isle.  More than one locality was favourably considered ere good fortune decided to send us hither to spy out the land.  A camp-out on the shore of then unnamed Brammo Bay—­a holiday-making party—­and the result of the first day’s exploration decided a revolutionary change in the lives of two seriously-minded persons.  A year after, a lease of the best portion of the island having been obtained in the meanwhile, we came for good.

Wholly uninhabited, entirely free from traces of the mauling paws of humanity, lovely in its mantle of varied foliage, what better sphere for the exercise of benign autocracy could be desired?  Here was virgin country, 20 miles from the nearest port—­sad and neglected Cardwell cut off from the mainland by more than 2 miles of estranging ocean, and yet lying in the track of small coastal steamers—­here all our pet theories might serenely develop.

But it was an inauspicious landing.  With September begin the north-east winds, and we had an average experience that afternoon.  Was it not a farce—­a great deal more than a farce:  a saucy, flippant imposition on the tender mercies of Providence—­for an individual who could not endure a few hours of tossing on the bosom of the ocean without becoming deadly sick, to imagine that he possessed the hardihood to establish a home even in this lovely wilderness?  We had tents and equipment and a boat of our own, a workman to help us at the start, and two faithful black servants.

The year before, we had made the acquaintance of one of the few survivors of the native population of the island—­stalwart Tom.  Although our project and preparations had been kept fairly secret, he had overheard a casual reference to them; had made a canoe, and paddling from island to island with his gin, an infant and mother-in-law, had preceded our advent by a week.  His duties began with the discharging of the first boatload of portable property.  He comes and goes now after the lapse of years.