OLD BOATS 227 



close to the little town and under the very shadow 

 of the white meeting house steeple, had rung with the 

 blows of axe and hammer. The great ribs rose into 

 place, the sheathing went on, the decks were laid, the 

 masts stepped; finally the first rigging was adjusted. 

 After the workmen left in the late afternoon, we boys 

 swarmed over the ships three-masters, smelling de- 

 liciously of new wood and caulking, and played we were 

 sailors. When the rope ladders were finally in place, 

 we raced up and down them, sitting in the crow's nest 

 on a line with the church weather vane, and pretending 

 to reef the sails. It was an event when the ships were 

 launched. The tide was at the flood, gay canoes 

 filled the stream along both banks, hundreds of people 

 massed on the shore. A little girl stood in the bow with 

 a bottle of wine on a string. An engine tooted, cables 

 creaked, and down the greased ways slid the ship, 

 with a dip and a heave when she hit the water that 

 made big waves on either side and set the canoes to 

 rocking madly, while the crowd cheered and shouted. 

 After the launching, the schooners were towed out to 

 sea, and down the coast, to be fitted elsewhere. We 

 boys followed them in canoes as far as the breakwater, 

 and watched them disappear. Soon their sails would 

 be set, and they would join the white adventurers out 

 there on the world rim. 



Where are they now, I wonder? Are they still 

 buffeting the seas, or do they lie moored and outmoded 



