File:Out-of-Doors in the Holyland (1908) (14757611196).jpg

Identifier: outofdoorsinholy00regi (find matches)
Title: Out-of-Doors in the Holyland
Year: 1908 (1900s)
Authors: Regis Canevin
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Contributing Library: Gumberg Library, Duquesne University
Digitizing Sponsor: Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation

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hy proud waves be stayed.There are the flat-roofed houses, and the orangegroves, and the minaret, and the lighthouse of Jaffa,crowning its rounded hill of rock. We are tossing atanchor a mile from the shore. Will the boats comeout to meet us in this storm, or must we go on toHaifa, fifty miles beyond ? Rumour says that the po-lice have refused to permit the boats to put out. Butlook, here they come, half a dozen open whale-boats,each manned by a dozen lusty, bare-legged, brownrowers, buffeting their way between the scatteredrocks, leaping high on the crested waves. The chiefsof the crews scramble on board the steamer, identifythe passengers consigned to the different tourist-agen-cies, sort out the baggage and lower it into the boats. My tickets, thus far, have been provided by thegreat Cook, and I fall to the charge of his head boat-man, a dusky demon of energy. A slippery climbdown the swaying ladder, a leap into the arms of twosturdy rowers, a stumble over the wet thwarts, and I 14
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TRAVELLERS JOY find myself in the stern sheets of the boat. A youngDutchman follows with stolid suddenness. TwoItalian gentlemen, weeping, refuse to descend morethan half-way, climb back, and are carried on toHaifa. A German lady with a parrot in a cage comesnext, and her anxiety for the parrot makes her forgetto be afraid. Then comes a little Polish lady, evi-dently a bride; she shuts her eyes tight and dropsinto the boat, pale, silent, resolved that she will notscream: her husband follows, equally pale, and sheclings indifferently to his hand and to mine, her eyesstill shut, a pretty image of white courage. The boatpushes off; the rowers smite the waves wdth theirlong oars and sing Halli—^j^allah—^yah hallah;the steersman high in the stern shouts unintelligible(and, I fear, profane) directions; we are swept alongon the tops of the waves, between the foaming rocks,drenched by spray and flying showers: at last webump alongside the little quay, and cHmb out onthe wet, gliddery ston

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