In Winter Quarters 



There is the same steady, high- 

 pitched humming in the wind tonight 

 I heard one wild day on the Mersey, 

 when, it seemed to me, the shipping of 

 half the world was riding at anchor in 

 a gusty gale that was tearing its savage 

 way up Channel to the granite docks 

 of Liverpool. Tom Allan of the White 

 Star Line could tell you of it, were he 

 here. Like corks upon Niagara's brink, 

 like the old Olivette in the choppy seas 

 of the straits of Florida, like drunken 

 dancers on a swinging floor, all sorts 

 of craft of high and low degree were 

 pitching, struggling, rising, falling, 

 floundering, whirling, diving in one 

 mad billowy salt-spray minuet. Night 

 was coming on as we boarded the 

 lighter that was to fight her way to the 

 Cymric's side. A half hour of life, real 

 life, ensued. Danger obviously lurked 

 for the unwary passenger or sailor on 

 that rolling flood, but there was some- 

 thing in it all that stirred the blood 

 and steadied the nerves of men of 

 [164] 



