[Illustration:  ISLAND of JETHOU By E. R. Suffling]

Now I will ask the reader to accompany me on a brief tour round the island.  Starting from the house, past the pigeon-tower, we pass under some large walnut trees so thickly planted as to make the part very shady, even on a bright day, and on dull days quite gloomy.  We take the middle path, which is about four feet wide, and flanked on each side by braken and boulders.  Indeed, nearly half the island consists of brakes and granite blocks.  I will mention the various items of interest as we pass along, if the reader will supply his own imaginings of whirling seagulls, frisking rabbits, sea breezes, bellowing surge as it bumps and breaks against the granite sides of the island, flowers and bloom, singing birds and sweet-smelling shrubs, etc.  These things a mere pen, however facile and graceful, cannot adequately describe without the help of the reader’s brain; so I will ask him to imagine the above for himself, but I must warn him not to take cold with his lively imagination, as occasionally the March winds are very keen here, and in the present age of hypnotism, and thought-reading, and like gymnastics of the brain, it is very easy to make the imagination play pranks of an undesirable nature.

Now to resume our walk.  Taking the middle path we quickly ascend to a height of nearly two hundred feet above the boiling surge dashing against the impregnable rocks below, and get a splendid view of Guernsey, a good three miles distant, stretching far away to the north, where it lies so low that it seems to melt gradually away into the sea.  Presently we come to some huge rocks which lie so much in our path that the footway has to wind round them.  They are huge masses of granite so poised that apparently a good push would send them rolling into the sea below, but their very size makes them secure, as some of the larger ones must certainly weigh forty or fifty tons, and the wind would have to blow a hurricane indeed which would dislodge them.

Here is one weighing perhaps three or four hundredweight which I will try and push over.  I tug, and push, and presently it nods, and nods, and rolls over and over, till gathering impetus down the steep side of the island, it crashes with irresistible force through the furze, and heather, and shrubs, clearing a path as it goes till it reaches the granite rocks, upon which it crashes and bounds, breaking off great splinters, till finally with a boom it buries itself in the foam, never more to be seen by mortal eyes.

Following the path we come to some curious terraces, one above the other, which form a hanging garden facing due south.  Now covered with turf, it was many years ago a famous potato garden.  This spot is known as the Cotils.