FullReads

“I didn’t ease up on my prayers afore the anchor was down an’ the Word o’ the Lord got her rest in the lee o’ Pinch-Me.

“‘Feelin’ better, Tumm?’ says Skipper Davy.

“‘I is.’

“‘Don’t you mind them few little kicks an’ cuffs,’ says he; ‘they was jus’ meant t’ harden you up.’

“‘My duty,’ says I.

“‘I isn’t very used t’ bein’ fond o’ nobody,’ says he, ‘an’ ’tis on my conscience t’ make a man o’ your mother’s son. An’, moreover,’ says he, ”tis on my conscience t’ teach you the worth of a dollar in labor.’

“‘My duty, Skipper Davy.’

“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘you don’t owe me nothin’, I’m deep in debt t’ you.’

“‘Twas a harsh season for Labrador-men. Fish? Fish enough–but bitter t’ take from the seas off Pinch-Me. The wind was easterly, raw, wet, an’ foggy, blowin’ high an’ low, an’ the ice went scrapin’ down the coast, an’ the big black-an’-white seas come tumblin’ in from Greenland. There was no lee for the Word o’ the Lord in that weather: she lied off the big cliffs o’ Pinch-Me, kickin’ her heels, writhin’ about, tossin’ her head; an’ many’s the time, in the drivin’ gales o’ that season, I made sure she’d pile up on the rocks, in the frothy little cove between the Thumb an’ the Finger, where the big waves went t’ smash with a boom-bang-swish an’ hiss o’ drippin’ thunder. By day ’twas haul the traps–pull an oar an’ fork the catch with a back on fire, cracked hands, salt-water sores t’ the elbow, soggy clothes, an’ an empty belly; an’ by night ’twas split the fish–slash an’ gut an’ stow away, in the torchlight, with sticky eyelids, hands an’ feet o’ lead, an’ a neck as limp as death. I learned a deal about life–an’ about the worth of a dollar in labor. ‘Take that!’ says Skipper Davy, with the toe of his boot, ‘an’ I’m sorry t’ have to do it, but you can’t fall asleep on a stack o’ green cod at two o’clock in the mornin’ an’ be a success in life. Try that !’ says he, with the flat of his hand, ‘though it grieves me sore t’ hurt you.’ But whatever an’ all, us loaded the Word o’ the Lord –an’ stowed the gear away, an’ fell down t’ sleep in our tracks, an’ by an’ by lied in wait for a fair wind t’ the Newf’un’land outports. An’ there comes a night–a fine, clear, starry night like this–with good prospects o’ haulin’ out at break o’ day. An’ I could sleep no longer, an’ I went on deck alone, t’ look up at the sky, an’ t’ dream dreams, maybe, accordin’ t’ my youth an’ hope an’ the good years I’d lived at Rickity Tickle.

“A lovely night: still an’ starlit–with a flash o’ northern lights abroad, an’ the ol’ Word o’ the Lord lyin’ snug asleep in a slow, black sea.

“Skipper Davy come up. ‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘is you on deck?’

“‘Ay, sir.’

“‘Where is you, b’y?’

“‘Lyin’ here, sir,’ says I, ‘cuddled down on a cod-net.’

“‘Now that the labor is over,’ says he, ‘I’m all tired out an’ downcast.’ He sot down beside me. ‘You doesn’t bear no malice for all them kicks an’ cuffs, does you?’ says he. ‘You sees, lad, I–I–isn’t used t’ bein’ fond o’ nobody–an’ I ‘low I don’t know how very well–though I done my best.’

“‘Sure,’ says I, ‘I’ve no malice?’

“‘What you doin’ here?’ says he.

“‘Lookin’ up at the stars.’

“‘Is you?’ says he. ‘What for?’

“‘They’re such wonderful friendly little beggars, Skipper Davy!’

“‘ I never looks up at the stars.’

“‘They’re friends o’ mine !’

“‘Not bein’ very much in favor o’ the world!’ says he, ‘I doesn’t countenance the stars.’

“An’ all at once I turned to un in a sweat an’ shiver o’ fear. Not countenance the stars! Here, then, another flash o’ light upon the big mystery! Now first I glimpsed the end of a path of evil. Not countenance the stars! Could a man truly come t’ such a sad pass in God’s good world? I knowed evil: all lads knows it, t’ be sure–its first gates in the world: not its last places. An’ they stand without, in fair meadows, an’ peep beyond–an’ wonder, an’ ponder, an’ wish with all their young, eager hearts t’ follow the paths an’ learn. An’ we that are growed forget the wonder an’ the wish–an’ show no scars that we can hide, an’ draw the curtain upon our ways, an’ make mockery o’ truth, an’ clothe our hearts in hypocrisy, an’ offer false example, an’ lie of our lives an’ souls, lest we stand ashamed. ‘Tis a cruel fate for lads, it may be, an’ a deceitful prophecy. I knows little enough about life, but exhibit my ways, whatever an’ all, for the worth they may have; an had I my will in the world, I’d light the country beyond the gates, ecod! an’ with my own hands stir up all the beasts! Not countenance the stars! ‘Twas a vision again for the lad that was I–first glimpse o’ the end of any path of evil. ‘I must guard my soul,’ thinks the lad that was I, in his heart, ‘lest I come to a pass like this.’