“That came from a ship which stopped here, and it is the only thing you see to remind you of civilization. Now in civilized countries,” she continued, “it takes a long time to cook things. In twenty minutes to half an hour, gentlemen, your dinner will be ready. The steam does it.” I never before had taken Kreelman for a wit, but this time he was equal to the occasion. “The steam does it, miss, just as you say. And there’s a place in America where they ain’t civilized because they cook with steam, too.” I think we were all as surprised as we were interested. “Where?” was the general question. “And they use rockweed instead of plaintain leaves.” That gave us sailors the clew, and we laughed. The girl was puzzled. Kreelman asked: “Did you ever hear of a Rhode Island clambake, miss?” Of course she had not, and Kreelman enlightened her as to the similar method of cooking with heated stones. In twenty-five minutes Sarah threw off the canvas and we men pitched off the stones. Sarah tested the good things with a fork, and pronounced them well done. Then pointing at what looked like a coffee-pot on the live coals of the fire near by, she said: “There is something that looks like civilization. In it is a drink that tastes like coffee, which we make from roots and herbs.” We sat down in the house, and the women proposed to wait on us; but we protested. So the good things were brought in, and we all sat down together. And what a repast! One may say that the things merely seemed delicious because we had lived for many months on ship fare. Perhaps that quickened our appetite, but after all these long years I must say that I never enjoyed a better-cooked meal. After we rose, I noticed on the wall a picture of Queen Victoria, and beneath it written in a large, free hand a National Anthem, composed by Reverend G. H. Nobbs. He was the beloved pastor who was now with most of his flock at Norfolk Island. There were three stanzas. I was granted permission to copy them. The first stanza is as follows: ’Mid the mighty Southern Ocean Stands an isolated rock, Blanchèd by the surf’s commotion, Riven by the lightning’s shock. Hark those strains to heaven ascending From those slopes of vivid green, Old and young, their voices blending— God preserve Britannia’s Queen!