The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne (uplifting books for women txt) 📕

was charmed to see his likeness, faithfully reproduced, ornamenting the walls of Granite House, and he stood before this display as pleased as if he had been gazing in one of the richest show-windows on Broadway.

It must be confessed, however, that the portrait, showing the finest execution, was that of master Jup. Master Jup has posed with a gravity impossible to describe, and his picture was a speaking likeness!

“One would say he was laughing!” exclaimed Pencroff.

And if Jup had not been satisfied, he must have been hard to please. But there it was, and he contemplated his image with such a sentimental air, that it was evident he was a little conceited.

The heat of the summer ended with March. The season was rainy, but the air was still warm, and the month was not as pleasant as they had expected. Perhaps it foreboded an early and a rigorous winter.

One morning, the 21st, Herbert had risen early, and, looking from the window, exclaimed:⁠—

“Hullo, the islet is covered with snow!”

“Snow at this season!” cried the reporter, joining the lad.

Their companions were soon beside them, and everyone saw that not only the islet, but that the entire beach below Granite House, was covered with the white mantle.

“It is, indeed, snow,” said Pencroff.

“Or something very much like it,” replied Neb.

“But the thermometer stands at 58°,” said Spilett.

Smith looked at the white covering without speaking, for he was, indeed, at a loss how to explain such a phenomenon in this season and in this temperature.

“The deuce!” cried the sailor; “our crops will have been frostbitten.”

And he was about descending when Jup sprang before him and slid down the rope to the ground.

The orang had scarcely touched the earth before the immense body of snow rose and scattered itself through the air in such innumerable flocks as to darken all the heavens for a time.

“They are birds!” cried Herbert.

The effect had, indeed, been produced by myriads of seabirds, with plumage of brilliant whiteness. They had come from hundreds of miles around on to the islet and the coast, and they now disappeared in the horizon, leaving the colonists as amazed as if they had witnessed a transformation scene, from winter to summer, in some fancy spectacle. Unfortunately, the change had been so sudden that neither the reporter nor the lad had had an opportunity of knocking over some of these birds, whose species they did not recognize.

A few days later, and it was the 26th of March. Two years had passed since the balloon had been thrown upon Lincoln Island.

XLI

Thoughts of home⁠—Chances of return⁠—Plan to explore the coast⁠—The departure of the 16th of April⁠—Serpentine Peninsula seen from sea⁠—The basaltic cliffs of the western coast⁠—Bad weather⁠—Night⁠—A new incident.

Two years already! For two years the colonists had had no communication with their fellows! They knew no more of what was happening in the world, lost upon this island, than if they had been upon the most distant asteroid of the solar system.

What was going on in their country? Their fatherland was always present to their eyes, that land which, when they left it, was torn by civil strife, which perhaps was still red with rebellious blood. It was a great grief to them, this war, and they often talked about it, never doubting, however, that the cause of the North would triumph for the honor of the American confederation.

During these two years not a ship had been seen. It was evident that Lincoln Island was out of the route of vessels; that it was unknown⁠—the maps proved this⁠—was evident, because, although it had no harbor, yet its streams would have drawn thither vessels desiring to renew their supply of water. But the surrounding sea was always desert, and the colonists could count on no outside help to bring them to their home.

Nevertheless, one chance of rescue existed, which was discussed one day in the first week of April, when the colonists were gathered in the hall of Granite House.

They had been talking of America and of the small hope of ever seeing it again.

“Undoubtedly, there is but one way of leaving the island,” said Spilett, “which is, to build a vessel large enough to make a voyage of some hundreds of miles. It seems to me, that, when one can build a shallop, they can readily build a ship.”

“And that they can as easily go to the Low Archipelago as to Tabor Island,” added Herbert.

“I do not say we cannot,” replied Pencroff, who always had the most to say on questions of a maritime nature; “I do not say we cannot, although it is very different whether one goes far or near! If our sloop had been threatened with bad weather when we went to Tabor Island, we knew that a shelter was not far off in either direction; but 1,200 miles to travel is a long bit of road, and the nearest land is at least that distance!”

“Do you mean, supposing the case to occur, Pencroff, that you would not risk it?” questioned the reporter.

“I would undertake whatever you wished, sir,” replied the sailor, “and you know I am not the man to draw back.”

“Remember, moreover, that we have another sailor with us, now,” said Neb.

“Who do you mean?” asked Pencroff.

“Ayrton.”

“That is true,” responded Herbert.

“If he would join us,” remarked Pencroff.

“Why,” said the reporter, “do you think that if Lord Glenarvan’s yacht had arrived at Tabor Island while Ayrton was living there, that he would have refused to leave?”

“You forget, my friends,” said Smith, “that Ayrton was not himself during the last few years there. But that is not the question. It is important to know whether we can count on the return of this Scotch vessel as among our chances for rescue. Now, Lord Glenarvan promised Ayrton that he would return to Tabor Island, when he judged his crimes sufficiently punished, and I believe that he will return.”

“Yes,” said the reporter, “and, moreover, I think he will return soon, as already