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An Idyl Of Rickity Tickle
by
“‘Twas not the sea: ’twas his own kind he feared an’ kep’ clear of–men, maids, an’ children. Friends? Nar a one–an’ ’twas wholly his choosin’, too; for the world never fails t’ give friends t’ the man that seeks un. ‘I doesn’t want no friends,’ says he. ‘New friends, new worries; an’ the more o’ one, the more o’ the other. I got troubles enough in this here damned world without takin’ aboard the thousand troubles o’ friends. An’ I ‘low they got troubles enough without sharin’ the burden o’ mine. Me a friend! I’d only fetch sorrow t’ the folk that loved me. An’ so I don’t want t’ have nothin’ t’ do with nobody. I wants t’ cotch my fish in season–an’ then I wants t’ be left alone. Hate or love: ’tis all the same–trouble for the hearts o’ folk on both sides. An’, anyhow, I isn’t got nothin’ t’ do with this world. I’m only lookin’ on. No favors took,’ says he, ‘an’ none granted.’ An’, well–t’ be sure–in the way the world has–the world o’ Rickity Tickle an’ the Labrador let un choose his own path. But it done Davy Junk no good that any man could see; for by fits he’d be bitter as salt, an’ by starts he’d be full o’ whimpers an’ sighs as a gale’s full o’ wind, an’ between his fits an’ his starts ’twas small rest that he had, I’m thinkin’. He’d no part with joy, for he hated laughter, an’ none with rest, for he couldn’t abide ease o’ mind; an’ as for sorrow, ’twas fair more than he could bear t’ look upon an’ live, for his conscience was alive an’ loud in his heart, an’ what with his religion he lived in despite of its teachin’.
“I’ve considered an’ thought sometimes, overcome a bit by the spectacle o’ grief, an’ no stars showin’, that had Davy Junk not been wonderful tender o’ heart he’d have nursed no spite against God’s world; an’ whatever an’ all, had he but had the power an’ wisdom, t’ strangle his conscience in its youth he’d have gained peace in his own path, as many a man afore un.
“‘Isn’t my fault!’ says he, one night. ‘Can’t blame me !’
“‘What’s that, Skipper Davy?’
“‘They says Janet Luff’s wee baby has come t’ the pass o’ starvation.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘what’s your tears for?’
“‘I isn’t got nothin’ t’ do with this here damned ol’ world,’ says he. ‘I’m only lookin’ on. Isn’t no good in it, anyhow.’
“‘Cheer up!’ says I. ‘Isn’t nobody hurtin’ you.’
“‘Not bein’ in love with tears an’ hunger,’ says he, ‘I isn’t able t’ cheer up.’
“‘There’s more’n that in the world.’
“‘Ay; death an’ sin.’
“I was a lad in love. ‘Kisses!’ says I.
“‘A pother o’ blood an’ trouble,’ says he. ‘Death in every mouthful a man takes.’
“‘Skipper Davy,’ says I, ‘you’ve come to a dreadful pass.’
“‘Ay, an’ t’ be sure!’ says he. ‘I’ve gathered wisdom with my years; an’ every man o’ years an’ wisdom has come to a dreadful pass. Wait ’til you’re thirty-two, lad, an’ you’ll find it out, an’ remember Davy Junk in kindness, once you feels the fangs o’ the world at your throat. Maybe you thinks, Tumm, that I likes t’ live in a wolf’s world. But I doesn’t like it. I jus’ knows ’tis a wolf’s world and goes cautious accordin’. I didn’t make it, an’ don’t like it, but I’m here, an’ I’m a wolf like the rest. A wolf’s world! Ah-ha! You bites or gets bit down here. Teeth for you an you’ve no teeth o’ your own. Janet Luff’s baby, says you? But a dollar a tooth; an’–I keeps my teeth; keeps un sharp an’ ready for them that might want t’ bite me in my old age. If I was a fish I’d be fond o’ angle-worms; bein’ born in a wolf’s world, with the soul of a wolf, why, damme, I files my teeth! Still an’ all, lad, I’m a genial man, an’ I’ll not deny that I’m unhappy. You thinks I likes t’ hear the lads ashore mock me for a pinch-penny an’ mean man? No, sir! It grieves me. I wants all the time t’ hear the little fellers sing out: “Ahoy, there, Skipper Davy, ol’ cock! What fair wind blowed you through the tickle?” An’ I’m a man o’ compassion, too. Why, Tumm, you’ll never believe it, I knows, but I wants t’ lift the fallen, an I wants t’ feed the hungry, an’ I wants to clothe the naked! It fair breaks my heart t’ hear a child cry. I lies awake o’ nights t’ brood upon the sorrows o’ the world. That’s my heart, Tumm, as God knows it–but ’tis not the wisdom I’ve gathered. An’ age an’ wisdom teach a man t’ be wary in a wolf’s world. ‘Tis a shame, by God!’ poor Davy Junk broke out; ‘but ’tisn’t my fault!’