In the old days, fifty years ago, when I first went to sea, it was thecustom in fine weather, in most ships, after supper had been leisurelydiscussed and pipes lighted, for both watches to gather on theforecastle deck to listen to the yarns of some old tar, or to join inone of the many ballads with a rattling chorus, in which the exploitsof Dick Turpin, Claude Duval, or some other dashing knight of the roadwere set forth in glowing terms and endless verses.

Many an evening, when a boy, I have coiled myself up on the deck,close to the windlass bitts, with my jacket rolled up under my headas a pillow, and have listened with eager interest to those toughyarns, while the good ship, with every inch of canvas, from courses tomoonsails, drawing, gently rose and fell with rhythmic motion, as sheploughed her way through the long rolling swells of the broad Pacific.

viA hundred feet above our heads, the tapering point of the skysail mastswayed; in the heavens about us blazed the brilliant constellations ofthe southern hemisphere; beneath us the waves gently swished as thesharp forefoot clave them asunder, and the story-teller droned on withhis tales of peril by storm and wreck, or, perchance, in a lightervein, dwelt upon the charms of that lass in some far-away port wholoved a sailor.

That was indeed the poetry of sea life! But like everything else thatis pleasant in this world, the hour in which we enjoyed it was briefand it came to an end, often in the very midst of the most excitingepisode of a story, with the harsh cry from the quarter deck: “Strikeeight bells! Set the watch, and lay aft here and heave the log!”

I here propose, in my turn, as thou

BU KİTABI OKUMAK İÇİN ÜYE OLUN VEYA GİRİŞ YAPIN!

Sitemize Üyelik ÜCRETSİZDİR!