A Nor' West Day.

May 13th, 1882. It is a beautiful sunny Saturday with a light haze drifting over the horizon, while above the distant hills a sapphire-blue arch etches itself in the western sky—a day of nor' west sunshine that only Canterbury knows. Riding at anchor in the open roadstead are three stately ships. Golden grain from the newly broken-in farms is being loaded into their holds from lighters towed out from the shore. On the morrow these vessels will be leaving Timaru. Not even the famous China Clippers hold better speed records than these wheat-wool greyhounds that soon will billow their sails to favouring trade winds and race to Mother England. As the day draws to its close, the ships finish loading.

At the sunset of that day a slight swell began to make itself felt, and as the evening drew on the sea became perceptibly rougher. Towards midnight the sea increased rapidly in force, but still there was little wind. The tide was now at its maximum, and those who knew the weather signs prophesied that at ebb tide the sea would increase in violence—a prophecy only too true, for with the dawn a heavy swell was running and the roaring of the surf could be heard for miles inland. All through the night Captain Mills, the Harbourmaster, kept constant watch on the ships riding in the roadstead. Daylight revealed these ships riding heavily, so he deemed it prudent to fire the signal gun, summoning the rocket brigade.