A Boyhood in Scotland 



When a wreck occurred within a mile or two of 

 the town, we often managed by running fast 

 to reach it and pick up some of the spoils. In 

 particular I remember visiting the battered 

 fragments of an unfortunate brig or schooner 

 that had been loaded with apples, and finding 

 fine unpitiful sport in rushing into the spent 

 waves and picking up the red-cheeked fruit 

 from the frothy, seething foam. 



All our school-books were extravagantly illus- 

 trated with drawings of every kind of sailing- 

 vessel, and every boy owned some sort of craft 

 whittled from a block of wood and trimmed 

 with infinite pains, — sloops, schooners, brigs, 

 and full-rigged ships, with their sails and string 

 ropes properly adjusted and named for us by 

 some old sailor. These precious toy craft with 

 lead keels we learned to sail on a pond near the 

 town. With the sails set at the proper angle to 

 the wind, they made fast straight voyages 

 across the pond to boys on the other side, who 

 readjusted the sails and started them back on 

 the return voyages. Oftentimes fleets of half a 

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