A grateful breeze greets your cheek with its bland whisperings; and the early sunbeams, devoid of their intense meridian heat, glisten on the dew-besprinkled leaves, or dance in the ripples of the neighbouring ponds. If the property should be a sugar estate, and it is the season of harvest when you visit it, many a jocund laugh comes from the mill-door, where, under direction of the manager or overseer, the sails are unfurled and given to the wind; and with shout and creak, and cracking of whip, the sober oxen are dragging home cartloads of golden sugar-canes. Thus the time wears on;—at one moment watching the busy group at the mill-door, at another holding converse with the lovely skies, or following with dazzled glance, the rapid flittings of the honey-seeking fly-bird;[48] and anon poring over the pages of some spirit-stirring volume, or in occasional snatches of conversation with the hospitable hostess. At length the master of the domain, in his snow-white dress, and broad-brimmed hat, returns from his morning ride around the property, and the other guests assemble; and as the bell rings for nine o’clock,[49] a black boy, with napkin on his arm, announces “_breck-fus_ (breakfast) ready, ma’am,” and a general movement takes place. The lady of the house, in her simple morning dress, presides at the head of her well-stocked table with a quiet gracefulness of manners, and amid a little racy talk and pleasant jest the meal proceeds. Tea and coffee, the light roll-like bread, roasted yams or potatoes, cutlets, ham, tongue, eggs, _caveached_ fish,[50] and potted meats, are among the lists of excellences found at a West Indian breakfast, while fresh butter, (which is reckoned a rarity, and is very troublesome to procure, being churned in a bottle, by continually shaking it, and which is served up without the addition of any salt,) and tempting fruits, fresh gathered from the tree, with the purple bloom upon them, form the lighter delicacies of the repast. The meal over, and finger-glasses handed round, the company quit the table, and assemble in the drawing-room in order to pass the morning. The gentlemen leave, on various cares intent—some ride to town, to pursue their customary avocations, while the master inspects the labours of his people, settles some magistracy business, or visits some other estates under his management. The ladies in the meantime settle themselves to various little womanly employments. There is the piano, the paint-box, and the embroidery-frame; a selection of periodicals, new works, (most of the genteel people are subscribers to the “Library Society,”) or a _porte-feuille_ of prints to look over; lively conversations of “home and home scenes,” (all West Indians call England home,) promenades in the galleries or verandahs, or romps with the children to while away the hours.