Life on the Sandbank—Ailie takes Possession of Fairyland—Glynn and Bumble Astonish the Little Fishes.  
In order that the reader may form a just conception of the sandbank on which the crew of the Red Eric had been wrecked, we shall describe it somewhat carefully.
 
It lay in the Southern Ocean, a little to the west of the longitude of the Cape of Good Hope, and somewhere between 2000 and 3000 miles to the south of it. As has been already remarked, the bank at its highest point was little more than a few feet above the level of the ocean, the waves of which in stormy weather almost, and the spray of which altogether, swept over it. In length it was barely fifty yards, and in breadth about forty. Being part of a coral reef, the surface of it was composed of the beautiful white sand that is formed from coral by the dashing waves. At one end of the bank—that on which the ship had struck—the reef rose into a ridge of rock, which stood a few feet higher than the level of the sand, and stretched out into the sea about twenty yards, with its points projecting here and there above water. On the centre of the bank at its highest point one or two very small blades of green substance were afterwards discovered. So few were they, however, and so delicate, that we feel justified in describing the spot as being utterly destitute of verdure. Ailie counted those green blades many a time after they were discovered. There were exactly thirty-five of them; twenty-six were, comparatively speaking, large; seven were of medium size, and two were extremely small—so small and thin that Ailie wondered they did not die of sheer delicacy of constitution on such a barren spot. The greater part of the surface of the bank was covered with the fine sand already referred to, but there were one or two spots which were covered with variously-sized pebbles, and an immense number of beautiful small shells.
 
On such a small and barren spot one would think there was little or nothing to admire. But this was not the case. Those persons whose thoughts are seldom allowed to fix attentively on any subject, are apt to fall into the mistake of supposing that in this world there are a great many absolutely uninteresting things. Many things are, indeed, uninteresting to individuals, but there does not exist a single thing which has not a certain amount of interest to one or another cast of mind, and which will not afford food for contemplation, and matter fitted to call forth our admiration for its great and good Creator.
 
We know a valley so beautiful that it has been for generations past, and will probably be for generations to come, the annual resort of hundreds of admiring travellers. The valley cannot be seen until you are almost in it. The country immediately around it is no way remarkable; it is even tame. Many people would exclaim at first sight in reference to it, “How uninteresting.”
 
It requires a close view, a minute inspection, to discover the beauties that lie hidden there.
 
So was it with our sandbank. Ailie’s first thoughts were, “Oh! how dreary; how desolate!” and in some respects she was right; but she dwelt there long enough to discover things that charmed her eye and her imagination, and caused her sometimes to feel as if she had been transported to the realms of Fairyland.
 
We do not say, observe, that the crew of the Red Eric were ever blessed with such dreams. Jim Scroggles, for instance, had no eye for the minute beauties or wonders of creation. Jim, according to his own assertion, could see about as far through a millstone as most men. He could apostrophise his eye, on certain occasions, and tell it—as though its own power of vision were an insufficient medium of information—that “that wos a stunnin’ iceberg;” or that “that wos a gale and a half, fit to tear the masts out o’ the ship a’most.” But for any less majestic object in nature, Jim Scroggles had nothing to say either to his eye, or his nose, or his shipmates.
 
As was Jim Scroggles, so were most of the other men. Hence they grumbled a good deal at their luckless condition. But upon the whole they were pretty cheerful—especially at meal-times—and, considering their circumstances, they behaved very well.
 
Glynn Proctor was a notable exception to the prevailing rule of indifference to small things. By nature he was of a superior stamp of mind to his comrades; besides, he had been better educated; and more than all, he was at that time under the influence of Ailie Dunning. She admired what she admired; he liked what she liked; he looked with interest at the things which she examined. Had Ailie sat down beside the stock of an old anchor and looked attentively at it, Glynn would have sat down and stared at it too, in the firm belief that there was something there worth looking at! Glynn laughed aloud sometimes at himself, to think how deeply interested he had become in the child, for up to that time he had rather avoided than courted the society of children; and he used to say to Ailie that the sailors would begin to call her his little sweetheart, if he spent so much of his time with her; to which Ailie would reply by asking what a sweetheart was; whereat Glynn would laugh immoderately; whereupon Ailie would tell him not to be stupid, but to come and play with her!
 
All the sailors, even including the taciturn Tarquin, had a tender feeling of regard for the little girl who shared their fortunes at that time, but with the exception of Glynn, none were capable of sympathising with her in her pursuits. Tim Rokens, her father, and Dr Hopley did to some extent, but these three had their minds too deeply filled with anxiety about their critical position to pay her much attention, beyond the kindest concern for her physical wants. King Bumble, too, we beg his pardon, showed considerable interest in her. The sable assistant of Nikel Sling shone conspicuous at this trying time, for his activity, good-humour, and endurance, and in connection with Phil Briant, Gurney, and Jacko, kept up the spirits of the shipwrecked men wonderfully.
 
Close under the rocks, on the side farthest removed from the spot where the rude tent was pitched, there was a little bay or creek, not more than twenty yards in diameter, which Ailie appropriated and called Fairyland! It was an uncommonly small spot, but it was exceedingly beautiful and interesting. The rocks, although small, were so broken and fantastically formed, that when Ailie crept close in amongst them, and so placed herself that the view of the sandbank was entirely shut out, and nothing was to be seen but little pools of crystal water and rocklets, with their margin of dazzling white sand, and the wreck of the ship in the distance, with the deep blue sea beyond, she quite forgot where she actually was, and began to wander in the most enchanting daydreams. But when, as often happened, there came towering thick masses of snowy clouds, like mountain peaks and battlements in the bright blue sky, her delight was so great that she could find no words to express it.
 
At such times—sometimes with Glynn by her side, sometimes alone—she would sit in a sunny nook, or in a shady nook if she felt too warm, and invite innumerable hosts of fairies to come and conduct her through interminable tracts of pure-white cloud region, and order such unheard-of wild creatures (each usually wanting a tail, or a leg, or an ear) to come out of the dark caves, that had they been all collected in one garden for exhibition to the public, that zoological garden would have been deemed, out of sight, the greatest of all the wonders of the world!
 
When a little wearied with those aerial journeys she would return to “Fairyland,” and, leaning over the brinks of the pools, peer down into their beautiful depths for hours at a time.
 
Ailie’s property of Fairyland had gardens, too, of the richest possible kind, full of flowers of the most lovely and brilliant hues. But the flowers were scentless, and, alas! she could not pluck them, for those gardens were all under water; they grew at the bottom of the sea!
 
Yes, reader, if the land was barren on that ocean islet, the pools there made up for it by presenting to view the most luxuriant marine vegetation. There were forests of branching coral of varied hues; there were masses of fan-shaped sponges; there were groves of green and red sea-weeds; and beds of red, and white, and orange, and striped creatures that stuck to the rocks, besides little fish with bright coloured backs that played there as if they really enjoyed living always under water—which is not easy for us, you know, to realise! And above all, the medium of water between Ailie and these things was so pure and pellucid when no breeze fanned the surface, that it was difficult to believe, unless you touched it, there was any water there at all.
 
While Ailie thus spent her time, or at least her leisure time, for she was by no means an idler in that busy little isle, the men were actively engaged each day in transporting provisions from the Red Eric to the sandbank, and in making them as secure as circumstances would admit of. For this purpose a raft had been constructed, and several trips a day were made to and from the wreck, so that in the course of a few days a considerable stock of provisions was accumulated on the bank. This was covered with tarpaulin, and heavy casks of salt junk were placed on the corners and edges to keep it down.
 
“I’ll tell ye wot it is, messmates,” remarked Gurney, one day, as they sat down round their wood fire to dine in front of their tent, “we’re purvisioned for six months at least, an’ if the weather only keeps fine I’ve no objection to remain wotiver.”
 
“Maybe,” said Briant, “ye’ll have to remain that time whether ye object or not.”
 
“By no means, Paddy,” retorted Gurney; “I could swum off to sea and be drownded if I liked.”
 
“No ye couldn’t, avic,” said Briant.
 
“Why not?” demanded Gurney.
 
“’Cause ye haven’t the pluck,” replied Phil.
 
“I’ll pluck the nose off yer face,” said Gurney, in affected anger.
 
“No ye won’t,” cried Phil, “’cause av ye do I’ll spile the soup by heavin’ it all over ye.”
 
“Oh!” exclaimed Gurney, with a look of horror, “listen to him, messmates, he calls it ‘soup’—the nasty kettle o’ dirty water! Well, well, it’s lucky we hain’t got nothin’ better to compare it with.”
 
“But, I say, lads,” interposed Jim Scroggles, seriously, “wot’ll we do if it comes on to blow a gale and blows away all our purvisions?”
 
“Ay, boys,” cried Dick Barnes, “that ’ere’s the question, as Hamlet remarked to his grandfather’s ghost; wot is to come on us supposin’ it comes on to blow sich a snorin’ gale as’ll blow the whole sandbank away, carryin’ us and our prog overboard along with it?”
 
“Wot’s that there soup made of?” demanded Tim Rokens.
 
“Salt junk and peas,” replied Nikel Sling.
 
“Ah! I thought there was somethin’ else in it,” said Tim, carelessly, “for it seems to perdooce oncommon bad jokes in them wot eats of it.”
 
“Now, Tim, don’t you go for to be sorcostic, but tell us a story.”
 
“Me tell a story? No, no, lads; there’s Glynn Proctor, he’s the boy for you. Where is he?”
 
“He’s aboard the wreck just now. The cap’n sent him for charts and quadrants, and suchlike cooriosities. Come, Gurney, tell you one if Tim won’t. How wos it, ............