292 BEACH GRASS 



Captain Howard was as good as a Joseph 

 Lincoln story, and his supply of stories seemed 

 unending. He had had an adventurous life and 

 began young. He told me bits of it from time to 

 time, sitting by the kitchen stove in his shirt- 

 sleeves, his black eyes twinkling, while his wife, 

 who must have heard the story many times, sat 

 by with a smile on her face of full appreciation. 

 I wish I could have taken down all the finer 

 touches and expressions that he used, but I can 

 give it from memory only as follows: 



"My father, who was a sea-captain, took me on 

 a trip to the West Indies when I was nine years 

 old. The next year my mother died and the 

 old man didn't take much of any notice of me 

 and didn't care when I went out whether I came 

 back or not. That was his way — so one day I 

 never did come back and I never saw the old man 

 again. 



"It was this way: I lived in New York and 

 used to play around the docks and look up at 

 the big ships. They were mostly sailing-ships 

 in those days with great high, painted sides and 

 blunt rounded bows like the old battleship 



