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Remember, remember,
The Fifth o’ November!

‘t was Tim Mull that must wind the fire-balls, an’ sot the bonfires, an’ put saleratus on the blisters. An’ at Christmastide, when the kids o’ Harbor come carolin’ up the hill, all in mummers’ dress, pipin’,–

God rest you, merry gentlemen;
Let nothin’ you dismay!

‘t was Tim Mull, in his cottage by Fo’c’s’le Head, that had a big blaze, an’ a cake, an’ a tale, an’ a tune on the concertina, for the rowdy crew.

“‘I love un!’ says he. ‘Can’t be too many for me !’

“An’ everybody knowed it; an’ everybody wondered, too, how Tim Mull would skipper his own little crew when he’d shipped un.

“Tim Mull fell in love, by-an’-by, with a dark maid o’ the Tickle. By this time his mother was dead, an’ he lived all alone in the cottage by Fo’c’s’le Head. He had full measure o’ the looks an’ ways that win women. ‘Twas the fashion t’ fish for un. An’ ’twas a thing that was shameless as fashion. Most o’ the maids o’ Harbor had cast hooks. Polly Twitter, for one, an’ in desperation: a pink an’ blue wee parcel o’ fluff–an’ a trim little craft, withal. But Tim Mull knowed nothin’ o’ this, at all; he was too stupid, maybe,–an’ too decent,–t’ read the glances an’ blushes an’ laughter they flung out for bait.

“‘Twas Mary Low–who’d cast no eyes his way–that overcome un. She loved Tim Mull. No doubt, in the way o’ maids, she had cherished her hope; an’ it may be she had grieved t’ see big Tim Mull, entangled in ribbons an’ curls an’ the sparkle o’ blue eyes, indulge the flirtatious ways o’ pretty little Polly Twitter. A tall maid, this Mary–soft an’ brown. She’d brown eyes, with black lashes to hide un, an’ brown hair, growin’ low an’ curly; an’ her round cheeks was brown, too, flushed with red. She was a maid with sweet ways an’ a tender pride; she was slow t’ speak an’ not much give t’ laughter; an’ she had the sad habit o’ broodin’ overmuch in the dusk. But she’d eyes for love, never fear, an’ her lips was warm; an’ there come a night in spring weather–broad moonlight an’ a still world–when Tim Mull give way to his courage.

“‘Tumm,’ says he, when he come in from his courtin’, that night, ‘there’ll be guns poppin’ at Tinkle Tickle come Friday.’

“‘A weddin’?’ says I.

“‘Me an’ Mary Low, Tumm. I been overcome at last. ‘Twas the moon.’

“‘She’s ever the friend o’ maids,’ says I.

“‘An’ the tinkle of a goat’s bell on Lookout. It fell down from the slope t’ the shadows where the alders arch over the road by Needle Rock. Jus’ when me an’ Mary was passin’ through, Tumm! You’d never believe such an accident. There’s no resistin’ brown eyes in spring weather. She’s a wonderful woman, lad.’

“‘That’s queer!’ says I.

“‘A wonderful woman,’ says he. ‘No shallow water there. She’s deep. I can’t tell you how wonderful she is. Sure, I’d have t’ play it on the concertina.’

“‘I’ll lead the chivari,’ says I, ‘an’ you grant me a favor.’

“‘Done!’ says he.

“‘Well, Tim,’ says I, ‘I’m a born godfather.’

“‘Ecod!’ says he. An’ he slapped his knee an’ chuckled. ‘Does you mean it? Tobias Tumm Mull! ‘Twill be a very good name for the first o’ my little crew. Haw, haw! The thing’s as good as managed.’

“So they was wed, hard an’ fast; an’ the women o’ Tinkle Tickle laughed on the sly at pretty Polly Twitter an’ condemned her shameless ways.”

* * * * *

“In the fall o’ that year I went down Barbadoes way in a fish-craft from St. John’s. An’ from Barbadoes, with youth upon me t’ urge adventure, I shipped of a sudden for Spanish ports. ‘Twas a matter o’ four years afore I clapped eyes on the hills o’ Tinkle Tickle again. An’ I mind well that when the schooner hauled down ol’ Fo’c’s’le Head, that day, I was in a fret t’ see the godson that Tim Mull had promised me. But there wasn’t no godson t’ see. There wasn’t no child at all.