We sailed past the great shipyards which line the Clyde. Gantrys loomed like giant’s arms against the sky. All along were ships in various stages of construction, some with bare skeleton-like ribs and others of graceful lines, nearing their launching to ply the seas in world commerce. Among them was the Elizabeth II, soon to be ready to sail. So narrow is the Clyde that ships cannot be launched straight Into the stream but must be built and shoved off at an angle.

Before final darkness fell in the long evening, we were out of the yards and the industrial area; now the river banks were soft and green with trees, pastures, and growing crops. For the first time, I felt the actual locale of the old song, "Roamin’ in the gloamin’ on the bonnie banks of Clyde." There were likely no Houston lads and lassies out there tonight "roamin’ in the gloamin’." They had probably gone to the "bright lights" of the city.

We had taken the long sea route from Glasgow to Belfast, cruising down the stream, out through the Clyde Firth, passing the paradise-like island of Arran—then crossing the North