Volume VIE. 



RECREATION. 



APRIL, J898. 

 G. 0. SHIELDS (COQUINA), Editor and Manager. 



Number 4. 



DREAMS OVER A DRIFTWOOD FIRE. 



CHARLES PRYER. 



I am sitting in the old home- 

 stead by the sea, watching the 

 driftwood on the firedogs. Jets 

 of iridescent flame ascend from 

 half-decomposed, copper-encrusted 

 planks that once were parts of a 

 noble ship, and soothe me into a 

 tranquil day dream. The curtain 

 of forgetlulness shrouds the real- 

 ity of my surroundings. The blue 

 flames turn h:to the azure of the 

 ocean, and the white oak and hack- 

 matack into a gallant ship with bulg- 

 ing canvas. The room and furni- 

 ture disappear into the films of 

 white smoke slowly rising, and I 

 feel the ocean breezes fan my face. 

 The crackling of the logs turns to 

 the shouts of the mates as they send 

 the crew aloft to make sail. Yard 

 after yard is hoisted into place ; 

 sail after sail is loosened and sheet- 

 ed home, until everything is draw- 

 ing that can in any way contribute 

 to the speed of the ship. I seem 

 in this vessel, yet scarcely of it. I 

 take no part in the stir and com- 

 motion, and yet all is as clear and 

 as real to me as to the commander 

 himself. 



Without rousing myself from my 

 day dream, I take up from the wood 

 basket what was once apparently a 

 part of the deck beam of a vessel, 

 intending to throw it on the fire. 

 My eyes catch a little carving on 

 the under and polished side of the 

 wood, and I see the inscription, 

 "A. H. S. Ship 'Hpa 1787. Bunk 



No. 27," evidently carved by some 

 old tar to while away an idle hour. 

 I at once drop back into my dream. 

 " If it were only the log ! " But 

 possibly it is better as it is, for I 

 am not confined to prosaic facts. I 

 can let imagination rule the voy- 

 age. 



For some days we sailed in 

 smooth and placid waters, fanned 

 by favorable breezes. The gentle 

 breathing of the ocean bore the 

 picturesque ship of a former gener- 

 ation easily onward, and although 

 the season was Winter the air was 

 as balmy as in May. Scarcely a 

 sail was shifted or even a brace 

 touched, the wind remaining steady 

 and from the same quarter for 

 some time, during this eventful 

 voyage. 



I had no curiosity as to where 

 we were going or whence we came, 

 but one morning as I walked care- 

 lessly past the compass I saw we 

 were steering a little South of 

 West. I concluded we were from 

 some port in England and bound 

 for either New York, Boston or 

 Philadelphia, probably the first. 



S transfer than my indifference as 

 to our course was the fact that no 

 one seemed cognizant of my pres- 

 ence. Everyone went about his 

 duties or pleasures, apparently 

 without knowledge of my exist- 

 ence. I never seemed to eat or 

 drink, nor to desire to do so. 



The quaint sailors, in their last 



255 



