a time a little above the sordid and commonplace. 

 The sailor ashore is not the same man he is out 

 there. He must needs have courage, for he must 

 meet the sea. Portuguese, Swedes, Finns poor 

 stuff for poems in their sailor boarding-houses 

 ashore. But hear how they face the winter gales. 

 Learn the actual experience which makes up that 

 life. The sea invests the poorest, meanest man 

 with heroic qualities. That is his stage; there he 

 looms large. Oil-skins and sou* wester are but his 

 make-up. 



I take home a piece of driftwood, for no ordi- 

 nary fire, but to kindle the imagination, for it is 

 saturated with memories and carries with it the 

 enchantment of the sea. To light this is to set in 

 motion a sort of magic-play. True driftwood has 

 been seasoned by the waters and mellowed by the 

 years. Not any piece of a lobster-pot, or pleasure 

 yacht, or, for that matter, of any modern craft* at 

 all is driftwood. It must have come from the 

 timber of a vessel built in the olden time when 

 copper bolts were used, so that the wood is im- 

 pregnated with copper salts. That is merely the 

 chemistry of it. The wood is saturated with sun- 

 shine and moonlight as well, with the storms and 



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