THE MOTHER OF MY CHILDHOOD. 291 
arily in peril. Next morning dawned bleak and wild; the 
waves tumbled over one another, the larger swallowing up 
the lesser for want of something else to satisfy their de- 
vouring inclination. This day and several others were only 
a repetition of the first night; no reckoning could be ob- 
tained; still we stood upon our course. With half an eye 
I could detect that our skipper was uneasy, and anxious 
again for a glimpse of the old familiar sun. 
One of our sails had been blown to ribbons, and our bow- 
sprit became partially sprung ; still, as long as we had plenty 
of sea-room all was comparatively safe; sailors’ ingenuity 
had obviated temporarily the injury of the latter, and the 
sail-room had supplied fresh canvas. The fourth evening 
the gale exhausted itself about midnight, and I, who had 
not closed an eye during these days, experienced a few 
hours of the balmiest sleep that ever fell to the lot of storm- 
tossed mariner, notwithstanding that there was not a dry 
stitch, even among the bedding, on board the Alert. How 
often do I think of the affectionate, kind mother of my 
childhood, and her anxiety that her boy should not sleep in 
damp sheets! Could she see or know the trials and hard- 
ships which he, with others, have encountered in. his jour- 
ney through life, her maternal solicitude would receive a 
severe shock. Truly the journey of life is a rough path, 
made up of storms and sunshine, wintry snows and tropical 
showers; one time ascending hills, the next descending ; 
fortune smiling to-day, frowning to-morrow ; ignorant ‘of 
what the future has in store for us; but, doubtless, all is 
for the best, and those troubles and temptations which in 
our spleen we grumble at are but intended to fit us for our 
ultimate resting-place, where perpetual sunshine and un- 
clouded happiness will reign forever. 
Next morning when day awoke me, I was delighted to 
find that we were once more on a level keel, and when I 
