fishermen's memorial and record book. 117 



Fishermen's Children Playing on the Beach. 



We remember reading somewhere in a book of dreamy fancies that 

 the thoughts of children are long, long thoughts. Tliey reach out a 

 great ways, and full of daring, venture into paths that we older 

 people, made practical by tlie world, are afraid to tread. A child's 

 thoughts, if we could but know them, would make the prettiest fairy 

 story ever told. 



These two fishermen's children playing on the beach of a sunny 

 afternoon have turned their backs to the sea. It looks, one might 

 fancy, as if they had turned their backs to the sunshine of life, and 

 were looking boldly out into the darkness. But their eyes are so 

 bright, being yet unclouded with sorrow, they can well afford to face 

 the shadows for a time ; their sight is strong. The boy's face is full 

 of daring ; we can see that, with his brown, bare arms crossed, and 

 his hat well pushed back from his forehead, he is telling his playmate 

 a marvellous story. Perhaps he imagines that he is a bold skipper 

 and has gone in his vessel on a perilous voyage. 



" The fleet dropped anchor at the Banks," he says, " and the wind 

 blew great guns. You'd ought to seen the snow drift, Matty. But 

 I stood at the rail and hauled in hand over hand. My ! didn't we 

 have a splendid catch? An' then we up anchor an' drifted — an' 

 drifted out of sight of all the others. Two of the vessels went 

 down, but we got safe into port after a while ; and. then, wasn't there 

 a shouting ! Youll never go on such a trip, Matty, for you're only a 

 girl ! " 



"We can imagine how the girl's brown cheek flushes and her bright 

 eye kindles as she answers, after a moment's hesitatinsr thouo-ht : — 



" Well, if I'm only a girl and can't go to the Banks, I can stay at 

 home and wait and pray for you to come safely back again." 



She seems very young to have found out that a woman's destiny is 

 to watch and wait for a loved one's coming. 



The scent of a seaport town is in this little picture. The vessels 

 glide away in the distance ; the sea and sky are all one, they are so 

 smooth and blue. We get the scent of tar and fish as the wind 

 blows in over the stones and twisted ropes, seaweed and oars. But 

 the children have turned their backs to all this, and are living in a 

 world of their own. The girl's face laughs through its sweet dream- 

 iness. She looks as if she were turning over in her mind something 

 the boy has said. Perhaps, she don't quite believe his story, although 



