There are actually a few trees in the
Underland. Above it, the red ramparts of rock rise like a wall to
the Overland, only to be reached by an endless flight of steps. On
the green tableland of the Overland, the houses nestle and huddle
together for shelter on the leeward side of the island, the
prevailing winds being westerly. The whole population let
lodgings, simply appointed, but beautifully neat and clean, as one
would expect amongst a seafaring population. There are a few
patches of cabbages and potatoes trying to grow in spite of the
gales, and all the rest is green turf. There is not one tree on
the wind-swept Overland. I heard nothing but German and Frisian
talked around me, and the only signs of British occupation were
the Union Jack flying in front of Government House (surely the
most modest edifice ever dignified with that title), and a notice-
board in front of the powder-magazine on the northern point of the
island. This notice-board was inscribed, "V.R. Trespassers will be
prosecuted," which at once gave a homelike feeling, and made one
realise that it was British soil on which one was standing.
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