138 



fishermen's memorial and record book. 



HiB smile came out with a ennny gleam, 



As it came in the days of yore; 

 And his voice had a soothing charm like the 

 waves 



When they sing on a shelving shore. 



The young folks gathered at eventide, 



With a bright, expectant eye, 

 For a ballad tune of the olden time. 



Or a tale of the days gone by. 



He sung of the fight on Bunker's Height, 



And how the red-coats ran ; 

 How Lawrence brought his noble ship 



In sight of old Cape Ann. 



He told that far, far back in the past, 



FuU sixty years and more, 

 The old ship " Howard " stranded, lay 



A wreck on our rocky shore. 



He sung of the deeds of Captain Kidd, — 



How the pirate loved to rove ; 

 Of the shining gold that he had buried deep 



In the dingle at Grapevine Cove. 



He told of his childish sports, and how 



Full seventy simimers back, 

 The glow on his cheeks was the bloom of health, 



And the curls on his brow were black. 



And he fondly smiled on the gentle Sue 



Who sat near his aged knee ; 

 And pressed his lip to her shining brow, 



For a kind old man was he. 



Then drop a tear for Skipper Jack, 



The best of the brothers seven ; 

 We would not call his spirit back 



From its anchor-hold in Heaven. 



JERRY AND ME. 



BT HIBAU BICH. 



No matter how the chances are, 

 ' Nor when the winds may blow, 



My Jerry there has left the sea 

 With all its luck an' woe ; 



For who would try the sea at all. 

 Must try it, luck or no. 



They told him — Lor', men take no care 

 How words they speak may fall — 



They told him, blunt, he was too old. 

 Too slow at oar and trawl; 



An' this is how he left the sea. 

 An' luck an' woe an' all. 



Take any man on sea or land. 



Out of his beaten way, 

 If he is young 'twill do, but then, 



If he is grieved or gray, 

 A month will be a year to him, 



Be all to him you may. 



He sits by me, but most he walks 



The dooryard for a deck, 

 An' scans the boat a-going out, 



Till she becomes a speck. 

 Then turns away, his face as wet 



As if she were a wreck. 



The men who haul the net an' lino 



Are never rich ; an' you 

 My Johnny here — a grown-up man — 



Is man an' baby too. 

 An' we have naught for rainy days, 



An' rainy days are due. 



My Jerry, diffident, abroad 



As restless as a brook, 

 An' when he left the boat an' all. 



Home had an empty look ; 

 But I will win him by an' by 



To like the window nook. 



I cannot bring him back again 

 The days when we were wed ; 



But he shall never know — my man — 

 The lack o' love or bread, 



While I can cast a stitch, or fill 

 A needleful of thread. 



God pity me, I'd most forgot 



How many yet there be. 

 Whose good men, full as dear as mine, 



Are somewhere on the sea; 

 Who hear the breakin' bar, an' think 



Of Jerry home an' me. 



Atlantic Monthly. 



