"Father has the appointment! We are going to live on the island, and
you must all row over to see me very often. Isn't it wonderful?"
A bright-faced young girl, surrounded by a group of schoolmates,
poured out her piece of news in such an eager torrent of words that
the girls were as excited as the teller of the tale, and there was a
chorus of: "Wonderful! Of course we will! What fun to live in that
fascinating place! Let's go and see it now!"
No sooner decided than done, and in a very short time there was a
fleet of rowboats led by that of Ida Lewis, on their way to the island
in Baker's Bay, where the Lime Rock Light stood, of which Captain
Hosea Lewis had just been appointed keeper.
Ida, Captain Hosea's daughter, was born at Newport, Rhode Island, on
the 25th of February, 1841, and was sent to school there as soon as
she was old enough. She was a quick-witted, sure-footed, firm-handed
girl from her earliest childhood, and a great lover of the sea in all
its changing phases. Often instead of playing games on land with her
mates she would beguile some old fisherman to take her out in his
fishing dory, and eagerly help him make his hauls, and by the time she
was fourteen years old she was an expert in handling the oars, and as
tireless a swimmer as could be found in all Newport.
And now her father had been appointed keeper of the Lime Rock Light,
the "Ida Lewis" light, as it came to be known in later years, and the
girl's home was no longer to be on _terra firma_, but on the
rock-ribbed island where the lighthouse stood, whose beacon-light cast
strong, steady rays across Baker's Bay, to the greater Narragansett
Bay, of which it is only an arm.
The flock of girls in their boats rowed hard and fast across the
silvery water with a steady plash, plash of the dipping oars in the
calm bay, and ever Ida Lewis was in the lead, heading toward the
island with a straight course, and keeping a close watch for the rocks
of which the Bay was full. She would turn her head, toss back her
hair, and call out in ringing tones to the flock, "'Ware, shoals!" and
obediently they would turn as she turned, follow where she led. Soon
her boat ran its sharp bow against the rocky ledge to which they had
been steering, and with quick confidence Ida sprang ashore, seized the
painter, and drew her boat to a mooring, while the rest of the fleet
came to the landing and one after another the girls jumped ashore.
Then up the rocky path to the lighthouse filed Ida and her friends,
eager to inspect the queer place which was to be Ida's home.
"How perfectly lovely! How odd! Oh, how I wish I were going to live
here! Ida, you are lucky--But just think how the wind will howl around
the house in a storm! Will your father ever let you tend the light, do
you think?"
The questions were not answered, and those who asked them did not
expect a response. They all chattered on at the same time, while they
inspected every nook and corner of their friend's new home. It was a
small place, that house on Lime Rock, built to house the
light-keeper's family, but one which could well answer to the name of
"home" to one as fond of the sea as was Ida Lewis. On the narrow
promontory, with the waves of the quiet bay lapping its rocky shores,
the two-story white house stood like a sea-gull poised for flight. A
living-room, with wide windows opening out on the bay it had, and
simple bedrooms where one could be lulled to sleep by the lapping of
waters on every side, while at the front of the house stood the tower
from which the light sent its searching beams to guide mariners trying
to enter the Newport harbor.
The girls climbed the spiral staircase leading up to the light, and
looked with wonder not unmixed with awe at the great lamp which was
always filled and trimmed for immediate use--saw the large bell which
tolled continuously during storm or fog; then they went down again to
the sunshiny out of doors, and were shown the boat-house, not so far
back of the light that it would be difficult to reach in a storm.
It was all a fairy residence to those young girls, and little could
they imagine that bright-eyed Ida, who was about to become a
lighthouse-keeper's daughter, was to be known in later years as the
Grace Darling of America, because of her heroic life on that small
promontory in Baker's Bay!
The Lewis family settled in the lighthouse as speedily as possible,
and when their simple household goods were arranged, the island home
was a pretty and a comfortable place, where the howling winds of
winter or the drenching, depressing fogs of all seasons would have no
chance to take from the homelike cheer inside, no matter how severe
they were. Books, pictures, a large rag rug, a model of a sloop, made
by Captain Hosea, family portraits belonging to his wife--whose
girlhood had been spent on Block Island as the daughter of Dr. Aaron
C. Wiley, and to whose ears the noise of wind and waves was the music
of remembered girlhood--all these added to the simple interior of the
lighthouse, while out of doors there was, as Ida said, "All the sea,
all the sky, all the joy of the great free world, and plenty of room
to enjoy it!"
And enjoy it she certainly did, although she had to rise early and
eat the plainest of fare, for the pay of a lighthouse-keeper would not
allow of many luxuries. At night she was in bed and fast asleep before
her friends on land had even thought of leaving their amusements or
occupations for sleep. It was a healthy life, and Ida grew broad of
shoulders, heavier in weight and as muscular as a boy. Every morning
she inspected her boat, and if it needed bailing out or cleaning she
was at work on it before breakfast; then at the appointed hour she was
ready to row her younger brothers and sisters to the mainland to
school. Like a little housekeeper, after dropping them, she went to
market in Newport for her mother, and sometimes her boat would be seen
crossing the bay more than once a morning, if there were many supplies
to be carried over; then the children must be rowed back after school
hours. Small wonder that Ida came to know every rock in the bay, and
was able to steer her boat safely in and out among the many
obstructions which were a peril to less intelligent mariners.
Towering over all neighboring buildings, the Lime Rock Light stood on
its rocky ledge, clearly seen by men on vessels entering or leaving
Narragansett Bay, and by officers and men at Fort Adams, as well as by
those who lived within sight of the light, and it came to be a daily
word, "Watch for the girl," for Ida sturdily rowed across the bay, no
matter how furious the storm, how dense the fog.
Late one afternoon, after visiting a friend, she was rowing from
Newport at the hour when a snub-nosed schooner sailed slowly into the
harbor on its way from New York to Newport with every sign of distress
visible among its crew, for not even the Captain knew where lay the
channel of safety between the perilous rocks, and the fog was thick.
[Illustration: IDA LEWIS]
Ida saw the schooner, and guessed its dilemma. Rowing as close to it
as she could, she signaled to the captain to follow her, and her
words were carried to him on the heavy air:
"Come on! Don't be afraid!"
Obediently he went on, as the girl directed, and reached the dock of
his destination in safety, where he shook hands heartily with his
bright-eyed guide before she pushed off again for her island home.
Later he spread the news among his mates that there was a "boss in
Baker's Bay who knew what she was about," and his advice was, "In
danger look for the dark-haired girl in a row-boat and follow her."
This came to be the accepted fashion among captains of the schooners
which in that day plied so frequently between New York and Newport,
and many a letter of thanks, or a more substantial remembrance, did
she receive from some one she had piloted across the angry bay.
Soldiers trying to reach the fort, or sailors anxious to row out to
their ships, always found a ready ferry-woman in Ida, and before the
Lewis family had been in the lighthouse for many months she was one of
the most popular young persons on land or sea within many miles--for
who had ever before seen such a seaworthy young mariner as she, or
where could such a fund of nautical wisdom be discovered as was stored
in her clear head? This question was asked in affectionate pride by
more than one good seaman who had become Ida's intimate friend at the
close of her first year on Lime Rock, while all the skippers had an
intense admiration for the girl who not only handled her life-boat
with a man's skill, but who kept the light filled and trimmed and
burning to save her father steps, now that he was crippled with
rheumatism.
The heat of summer had given place to the crisp coolness of a glorious
October day as Ida was just starting to row to the mainland to do an
errand for her mother. She looked out of the window, across the bay,
to see if there was any prospect of a shower, and her keen eyes
glimpsed a sight that made her hurry for the glass. Looking through
it, she gave a sharp cry and rushed to the door.
"What is it, daughter?" the captain queried.
But Ida was already out of the house. So he hobbled slowly to the
window and, with the use of the glass Ida had dropped, saw his
energetic child push the life-boat out of its shelter, drag it to the
shore, jump in and row rapidly to the middle of the bay where a
pleasure-boat had capsized. There were four men in the water,
struggling with the high waves which momentarily threatened to
overcome them. When Ida reached them in her life-boat, two were
clinging to the overturned craft, and two were making a desperate
effort to swim toward shore. The watching captain, through his glass,
saw Ida row close to the capsized boat and with strong, steady hands
pull and drag one after another of the men into her boat. When they
were all in, she rowed with sure strokes back across the stormy water,
carrying her load of human freight to shore and receiving their thanks
as modestly as if she had not done a remarkable deed for a girl of
seventeen. A very fine piece of work was Ida's first rescue, but by no
means her last. She loved to row out in a storm and dare the winds and
waves to do their worst, and she grew to think her mission a clear
one, as life-saver of the light.
A year after her first experience as life-saver, her father, who had
recently been paralyzed, died, and so capable was his
eighteen-year-old daughter in doing his duties that she was allowed to
continue in the care of the light until her father's successor should
be appointed. When the news came to her, Ida's eyes gleamed, as if in
anticipation of some happy event, and to her devoted Newfoundland dog
she exclaimed: "We love it too well to give it up to anybody; don't
we, doggie dear? We will succeed to ourselves!" And she did succeed
to herself, being finally made keeper of the light by special act of
Congress--the appointment being conferred upon her in 1879 by General
Sherman as a compliment to her ability and bravery; doubtless because
of the recommendation of those fishermen and seamen whose respect for
the brave girl was great and who did not wish the government to remove
her. In any case, she was chosen for the responsible position as
successor to her father, and to herself, as she quaintly put it, and
more and more she became devoted to every stone of the small
promontory, and to every smallest duty in connection with her work and
her island home.
Winter and summer passed in the regular routine of her daily duties as
keeper of the light, and every time she lighted the big lamp whose
beams shone out over the waters with such comforting gleams for
watching mariners she was filled with assurance that hers was the
greatest and most interesting mission in the world.
Winter came with its howling winds and frozen bay. A terrific storm
was blowing from the north; snow was driving from every direction and
it was hardly possible to stand on one's feet because of the fury of
the gale. Ida lighted her beacon of warning to ships at sea, and
rejoiced as she saw its glowing rays flash out over the turbulent
waters. Then she went down into the cozy kitchen and speedily ate a
simple supper prepared by her mother. How the wind shrieked around the
little house on the island! Ida hastily raised the curtain, to see how
heavily it was storming, and she gave an exclamation of surprise; then
ran up the spiral stairway to the tower, where in the rays of the
steady light she could see more clearly. Far out on the waves, beyond
the frozen surface of the inner bay, she saw a light skiff bobbing up
and down, the toy of wind and wave; in it by the aid of her powerful
glass she could see a stiff, still figure. A man had been overcome by
the cold--he would die if he were not rescued at once. Quick as a
flash she was down-stairs, in the boat-house, had pulled out the boat,
although it was a hard task in such a storm even for one as strong as
she, and soon was on her way across that part of the bay which was not
frozen. Up and down on the storm-tossed waves her craft tossed, now
righting itself, now almost submerged--but Ida pulled on with strong
sure strokes, and drew alongside of the bobbing skiff--took hold of
it, drew it to the side of her own boat, and, looking into the face of
the man in it, saw that he must be rowed to land as quickly as
possible if he were to be saved. She saved him. When he regained
consciousness he found himself propped up before the warm fire in the
lighthouse kitchen, with the most delicious feeling of languor
stealing through his whole frame, instead of the cruel numbness which
had been the last sensation before he became unconscious. And it added
materially to his enjoyment that a bright-eyed, dark-haired young
woman hovered around him, ministering to his wants in a delightful
way.
The young lighthouse-keeper's next rescue was of a soldier from the
Fort Adams garrison who, in trying to cross the harbor in a small
boat, was thrown into the bay by the force of the waves, and would
have been drowned, as he was not a good swimmer, had not Ida's keen
eyes seen him and she gone instantly to his rescue. He was a heavy
man, and Ida tried in vain to lift him into her boat, but was not
strong enough. What should she do? The great waves were lashing
against the boats in such a fury that what was done must be done
quickly. With ready wit she threw a rope around his body under the
arm-pits, and towed him to shore as hard and fast as she could, at the
same time watching closely that his head did not go under water. It
was a man-sized job, but Ida accomplished it, and, seeing his
exhaustion when she reached shore, she called two men, who aided in
resuscitating him.
"Who towed him in?" asked one of them, who was a stranger to Ida.
"I did," she replied.
"Ah, go on!" he said, incredulously. "A girl like you doing that! Tell
me something I can believe!"
Ida laughed and turned to the other man. "He will tell you what I have
done and what I can do, even if I am a girl!" she said; and the
seaman, just landed from a coastwise steamer, looked at her with
admiration tinged with awe. "She's the boss of these parts," said his
companion, "and the prettiest life-saver on the coast. Just try it
yourself and see!"
As the man did not seem to care about risking his life to have it
saved, even by Ida Lewis, he went his way, but whenever his steamer
touched at Newport after that he always paid his respects to the
"prettiest life-saver on the coast."
Twelve months went by, with ever-increasing fame for the girl keeper
of Lime Rock Light who had become one of the features of the vicinity,
to meet and talk with whom many a tourist lengthened a stay in
Newport, and Ida enjoyed meeting them and showing them her light and
her home and her boat and her dog and all her other treasures, while
in return they told her many interesting things about the great world
beyond the beams of her light.
Up in the tower one day--it was in the autumn of 1867--she was looking
out over the bay, fearing trouble for some vessel, as a furious storm
was raging, and the wind was blowing snow in such white sheets that
few captains could make their way among the rocks of the harbor
without difficulty, while any one foolish enough to set out in a
rowboat would find it impossible to reach the shore.
Out flashed the rays of the beacon-light, and far off on the
tempestuous waves Ida saw what seemed to be two men in a boat with a
load of sheep. The wind was howling, and borne on its shrieking Ida
fancied she could hear the moans of the men and the frightened beasts.
One quick look at her light, to make sure that it was all right to
leave, then down ran the life-saver to her self-appointed work. Never
was there such a gale blowing in Narragansett Bay, and in the smaller
bay white-capped waves and gusts of wind and rain added to biting,
stinging cold made it almost impossible even for sturdy Ida to
struggle out from the boat-house, to launch her rowboat on the stormy
sea. But she never gave in to any obstacles, and soon her little boat
could be seen making slow headway across the bay, in the direction of
the drifting men and their cargo of sheep.
Now the wind drove her back, now it blew her small craft to one side
and the other, but steadily, though slowly, she gained on herself, and
at last she reached the men, who could make no headway in the teeth of
such a gale, and were simply drifting and watching Ida's acts with
incredulous wonder. A young girl--come to rescue them in such a storm
as this! Quickly she helped them to climb into her boat, and took up
her oars. One man protested. "But the sheep," he said.
"Leave them to me!" commanded Ida, sternly, rowing as fast as she
could, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders and her cheeks
rose-red from the stinging cold of the air. Neither man ventured
another word. Reaching the rocky coast of the island, Ida sprang out
after them, pointed out the kitchen door, and said:
"Stay in there and get warm till I come back."
"But--" began one.
Ida was already out of hearing, and the men whose lives had been
saved did as they had been told, and in the warm kitchen awaited the
coming of their rescuer. In an hour there were footsteps outside, the
door opened, and a glowing girl stepped in out of the bitter gale,
stamping her almost frozen feet and holding out her benumbed hands to
the glowing fire.
"Well, they are all safe on land," she said. "I think they had better
be left in the boat-house overnight. The wind is in the right quarter
for a clear day to-morrow; then you can put out again."
There was no reply. A girl like this keeper of the Lime Rock Light
left no room for pretty compliments, but made a man feel that if she
could do such deeds with simple courage, what could he not do with
such a spirit as hers! No one ever paid Ida Lewis higher praise than
these two rough men when, on leaving, they each gripped her hand and
the spokesman said:
"Whenever I see your light shining, I'll put up a prayer for its
keeper, and thanking you for what you did for us, ma'am--if my little
one's a girl, she will be Ida Lewis!"
Up spoke his comrade: "My daughter's twelve year old come September
next, and I hope she'll be your kind. It'd make a new kind of a world
to have such!"
While such praise did not turn Ida's very level head, or make her
vain, it gave her a deep satisfaction and a tremendous sense of
responsibility in her beloved occupation.
Two years went by, and Ida Lewis was a name which commanded respect
throughout Rhode Island because of her work for the government, and
there was scarcely a day when she did not direct some wandering
boatman or give valuable aid to a distressed seafarer, but from the
day she brought the men and their load of sheep to shore it was a year
before there was any need of such aid as she had given them. Then on a
day never to be forgotten by those to whose rescue she went, she saw
two of the soldiers who were stationed at Fort Adams rowing toward the
fort from Newport. A young lad was at the oars, and he showed that he
was not in any way experienced as a boatman. A sudden squall overtook
the small boat in mid-bay, and, as Ida Lewis looked at it, it
capsized. At the moment Ida happened to be without hat or coat, or
even shoes. Rushing to the boat-house, she took her staunch friend to
the shore, and launched out in the wild squall under an inky-black
sky; and she had to row against a wind that drove her back time after
time. Finally she reached the wreck, only to find the boy had gone
under. The soldiers were clinging to the bobbing keel of the boat, and
Ida grasped them with a firm, practised hand, while at the same time
managing to keep her own boat near enough so that when a wave washed
them together she was able to help the exhausted soldiers to climb
into it. They were unable to speak, and one of them was so exhausted
that she feared she could not get him to land in time to resuscitate
him.
With wind-blown hair, and eyes dark with determination, she rowed as
she had never rowed before, and at last her boat touched the rocky
home ledge. Out she jumped, and in less time than it takes to tell it,
she had the men before her fire, wrapped in blankets. One of them was
unconscious for such a long time that his rescuer was wondering what
was best to do--to take the risk of leaving him and row to the
mainland for a doctor, or to take the risk of doing for him with her
own inexperienced hands. Just then his blue eyes opened, and after a
drink of stimulant he slowly revived, and at last was able to talk
coherently. The storm was still raging and the men remained on the
lighthouse ledge with the girl rescuer, for whom they showed open
admiration; then, when the clouds lifted and the moon shone wanly
through the rift, they took their own boat and rowed off to the fort.
But they were staunch friends of Ida Lewis from that day, and she
enjoyed many a chat with them, and had more than one pleasant
afternoon on the mainland with them when they were off duty.
At another time she was out in her boat in a bad storm, when through
the dense darkness she heard cries of, "Help! help!" and, rowing in
the direction from which the cries came, she found three men in the
water clinging to the keel of an overturned boat. With her usual
promptness in an emergency, she dragged them all into her boat and
took them to shore. Another day, from the lighthouse tower, she saw
the slender figure of a man clinging to a spindle which was a mile and
a half from the lighthouse. In a very short time he would be too
exhausted to hold on any longer. She must hurry, hurry! With flying
feet she made her boat ready; with firm strokes she rowed out to the
spindle, rescued the man and bore him safely to shore.
At this time Ida Lewis was so well known as being always on hand in
any emergency that it was taken as a matter of course to have her
appear out of the sky, as one's preserver, and the man, though
extremely grateful, did not seem as astonished as he might have
otherwise been to be saved from such a death by a young girl who
apparently dropped from the skies just to rescue him.
In all of these experiences, when she was able to save men's lives at
the risk of her own, and was successful by reason of her quick wit and
self-forgetful courage, despite the grave chances she took, she never
had a single fright about her own safety, but simply flew across the
bay at any time of day or night at the sight of a speck on the water
which to her trained eye was a human being in danger.
Winter's hand had laid its glittering mantle of ice on Baker's Bay,
and on a glorious sunlit morning Ida was ready to start to Newport to
make some necessary purchases. When she was just about to push her
boat off the rocks she looked over the bay with the intent, piercing
glance for which she was famous among fisher-folk, who declared she
could "see out of the back of her head," and caught a glimpse of
uniforms, of struggling figures in that part of the bay which was so
shallow as to be always frozen in mid-winter, and which the soldiers
all knew to be dangerous to cross. But there were two of them, waving
their arms in frantic appeal for help, as they tried to keep from
going under in the icy water of the bay.
There was not a moment to lose. Ida put out from shore, rowed swiftly
to a point as near the drowning and freezing men as was possible, then
with her oars broke the ice sufficiently to make a channel for her
boat. As she came near to them she found that the insecure ice, melted
by the strong sun, had given way under them, while they were evidently
trying to take a short cut to Fort Adams from Newport.
It was hard work and quick work for Ida's experienced hands to get
them into the life-boat; and so nearly frozen were they that she was
obliged to rest on her oars, at the same time rubbing their numb limbs
as well as she could. Then she rowed for shore faster than she had
ever rowed but once before, and, as she told afterward:
"I flew for restoratives and hot water, and worked so hard and so
fast, rubbing them and heating them, that it was not long before they
came to life again and were sitting up in front of the fire,
apologizing for their folly, and promising that they would never again
give me such a piece of work to do, or cross the bay in winter at a
point where they knew it was a risk." She added, naïvely: "They were
as penitent as naughty children, so I took advantage of it and gave
them a lecture on things soldiers ought not to do, among them drinking
whisky--even with the good excuse of being cold--and showing them
quite plainly that this scare they had had came from that bad habit.
They seemed very sorry, and when they got up to go, they saluted me as
if I were their captain. Then off they went to the fort."
Several days later she received a letter of thanks from the officers
at Fort Adams, and a gold watch from the men she had rescued "in
grateful appreciation of a woman's heroism."
On through the long years Ida Lewis, with hair growing slowly a little
grayer, and with arms a little less equal to the burden of rowing a
heavy boat through fierce winter gales, was faithful to her duties as
keeper of the light, now never spoken of as the Lime Rock Light, but
always as the Ida Lewis Light; and, although she was always averse to
notoriety, yet she was forced to accept the penalty of her brave
deeds, and welcome the thousands of tourists who now swarmed daily
over the promontory and insisted on a personal talk with the keeper of
the light. Had it not been for Mrs. Lewis, both aged and feeble, but
able to meet and show the visitors over the island, Ida would have had
no privacy at all and no time for her work.
Although she always disliked praise or publicity, yet she accepted
official recognition of her faithful work with real appreciation, and
it was touching to see her joy when one day she received a letter
bearing the signature of the Secretary of the Treasury, notifying her
that the gold life-saving medal had been awarded to her--and stating
that she was the only woman in America upon whom the honor had been
conferred! At a later date she also received three silver medals:
gifts from the State of Rhode Island, and from the Humane Society of
Massachusetts, and also from the New York Life-Saving Association. All
these recognitions of her achievements Ida Lewis received with shining
eyes and wonder that such praise should have come to her for the
simple performance of her duty. "Any one would rescue a drowning man,
of course," she said. "I just happen to be where I see them first!"
But although she was so modest, and although so many honors were
heaped upon her, none ever meant to her what the first expression of
public appreciation meant, shown by the citizens of Rhode Island.
An invitation had been sent to her, asking her to be present at the
Custom-House at Newport on a certain day in 1869. She accepted the
invitation, and went at the appointed hour without much thought about
the matter. When she reached the Custom-House, to her surprise a
committee of prominent Newport residents met her and escorted her to a
seat on the platform, from which she looked down on a vast audience,
all staring with evident curiosity at the slight, dark-haired woman in
whose honor the throng had come together. There were speeches so
filled with praise of her deeds that Ida Lewis would have liked to fly
from the sight of the applauding crowd; but instead must sit and
listen. The speeches at an end, there was a moment's pause; then she
found herself on her feet, amid a chorus of cheers, being presented
with a magnificent new life-boat, the _Rescue_, a gift from the
citizens of Newport as a slight recognition of her acts of bravery.
Ida never knew all she said in response to the presentation speech;
she only knew that tears streamed down her cheeks as she gripped a
man's hand and said, "Thank you, thank you--I don't deserve it!" over
and over again, while the audience stood up and applauded to the echo.
As if that were not enough to overcome any young woman, as she left
the building, James Fisk, Jr., approached her and, grasping her hand
warmly, told her that there was to be a new boat-house built back of
the light, large enough for her beautiful new boat.
It was late that night before Ida fell asleep, lulled at last by the
wind and the lapping of the waves, and thinking with intense happiness
not of her own achievements, but of the pride and joy with which her
mother received the account of her daughter's ovation and gift, and
her words rang in Ida's ears above the noise of the waters, "Your
father would be so proud, dear!"
For fifty-three years Ida Lewis remained the faithful keeper of her
beloved light, and because of her healthy, out-of-door life we catch a
glimpse of the woman of sixty-five which reminds us strongly of the
girl who led the way to the lighthouse point on that day in 1841, to
show her new home to her schoolmates. In the face of howling winds and
winter gales she had snatched twenty-three lives from the jaws of
death, and in her sixty-fifth year she was at her old work.
A woman had rowed out to the light from Newport, and when her boat had
almost reached the pier which had been erected recently on the island
shore, she rashly stood on her feet, lost her balance and fell
overboard. Ida Lewis, who was rowing in near the pier, instantly came
to the rescue, helped the struggling and much frightened woman into
her own boat, and then picked up the other one, which was drifting
away.
Sixty-five years young, and heroic from earliest girlhood to latest
old age! We add our tribute to those heaped on her head by many who
knew her in person and others who were acquainted only with her heroic
acts, and we rejoice to know that in this year of American crisis we,
too, can reflect the heroism of the keeper of Lime Rock Light, for in
our hands are greater opportunities for wide service and greater
variety of instruments by which to mold the destiny of nations and
save life. Proud are we that we, too, are American, as was Ida Lewis,
and we can give interest as consecrated and sincere to the work at our
hand to-day as she gave, whose daily precepts were work and thrift,
and who said, in her quaint way, of the light which had been her
beacon of inspiration for so many years of service:
"The light is my child and I know when it needs me, even if I sleep.
This is home to me, and I hope the good Lord will take me away when I
have to leave it."
Her wish was granted. In the last week of October, 1911, she fell
asleep in the lighthouse on Lime Rock, which had been her home for so
long, lulled into an eternal repose by the wind and waves, which had
for many years been her beloved companions--and as she slept the
beacon-light which she had for so long kept trimmed and burning sent
out its rays far beyond the little bay where Ida Lewis lay asleep.
Patriotism, faithfulness, service--who can reckon their value? The
gleam of Ida Lewis's light flashes inspiration and determination to
our hearts to-day.