"The winds are fair, the sky is bright,
The sails are drawing free,
And loud I sing, my heart is light,
My loves returns to me.
To the no'nothe east and the sou'sou' west,
And every other way,
He's sailed from the girl that loved him best,
But he comes back to-day.
"Land ho!" "Land ho!"
"Land on the starboard bow!"
"Land ho!" "Land ho!"
He's in the offing now.
The nights were dark, the days were drear,
When he was on the deep,
Now night is gone, the day is clear,
And I no more shall weep.
To the no'nothe east and the sou'sou' west,
And every other way,
He's sailed from the girl that loves him best,
But he comes back to-day.
"Land ho!" "Land ho!"
"Land on the starboard bow!"
"Land ho!" "Land ho!"
He's in the offing now."
So sung pretty Mary Wallace, as, sitting at the foot of a little tree,
her favorite haunt and old time trysting-place in the woods, she
abandoned herself to happy anticipations of her lover's return. Each
hour might bring him now. Her bonnet was thrown aside and her black
curls rippled down loosely over her shoulders. Her head was thrown
back into the palms of her hands interlocked behind it, and her
beautiful face, thus upraised, beamed with innocent gladness. And she
sang, as the birds sing, from sheer happiness.
"He's in the offing now," sang a full, rich, manly voice, joining hers
in the last line of her song, and with a little inarticulate cry of
surprise and joy she sprang to her feet, to be the next moment
enfolded in the strong arms of her sailor lover, back from the sea.
Dorn Hackett was a fine-looking young fellow, of a size worthy of a
woman's liking, with a handsome, expressive face, hazel eyes, brown
hair, broad and well-balanced head, square shoulders, deep chest, and
such powerful arms as might have served for the model of a Hercules.
"Why, darling, you are crying!" he exclaimed, as with gentle force he
raised her face from his breast and looked into her eyes.
"Ah, Dorn, they are happy tears. Do you not know that a woman weeps
when her heart is full, just because it _is_ full, whether it be
filled with joy or sorrow?"
"Well, you shall never cry for sorrow again, if I can prevent it."
"Then you will never again leave me for so long a time. Oh, Dorn, it
seemed as if you never would come back; and my heart ached so with
longing for you. You don't know how unhappy I have been sometimes,
while you were away."
"Why? Has that rascal Silas been making you any more trouble?"
demanded the young man, his eyes blazing, and his hands involuntarily
clenching in sudden anger.
"No, no, Dorn. He went away very soon after you did, and has not
returned since."
"Then that uncle of yours, I suppose--"
"He has been no worse than before; rather better, perhaps as Silas was
not here to be urged upon me and you were gone--none but I knew
where--and, as he no doubt hoped, never to come back. But I begin to
think, sir, that you didn't love me at all as much as you professed,
or you would have felt something of the loneliness that I suffered and
understand better why I was unhappy."
"Darling, I--"
"What a foolish girl I have been! Crying my eyes out for one who was
no doubt very merry without me and well contented."
"Ah! You only say that to make me tell you again how much I love you,
little Mollie. I've felt lonely enough, sometimes, it is true; but
never enough to cry about it, I must confess; and I rather think the
fellow is soft-headed as well as soft-hearted who pipes his eye and
gets down in the mouth when he can say to himself that every day that
passes, and every new exertion he makes, brings him nearer to the girl
he loves. Why, instead of getting blue with thoughts of my far-away
little Mollie, they gave me courage, and strength, and happiness. They
warmed me as I lay along the yard furling sail in the icy gale; they
made short the long hours of the night when I took my trick at the
wheel; they nerved my arm when I struck for the life of a whale."
"I find myself beginning to believe again that you really did love
me."
"Love you? Why, I couldn't live without loving you."
"And you never thought that while you were so long away I might learn
to love somebody else?"
"No. Never even dreamed of such a thing," he replied simply.
"Ah! Now I know you loved me, for only perfect love, knowing but its
own fullness and truth, is so trustful. And you were right, dear Dorn.
I could love no one but you."
"Well, my pet," continued Dorn, after the natural ceremonial of due
recognition of such a sweet avowal--the form and manner of which
youthful readers may readily figure to themselves, and older ones
perhaps find suggested by memory--"we'll not have much longer to wait
now. Our cruise was a good one, and when the shares are figured up and
paid off, I'll have a handsome little sum coming to me. Then an owner
in New Haven, Mr. Merriwether, wants me to take immediate command of a
schooner trading between that port and the West Indies, and has
offered me such a pretty share of the profits that I have agreed to
make a few trips for him. Then I shall have enough to build a cage for
my bird, and to buy, not simply a share in a schooner, but a whole
schooner--all by myself, I hope, and we will be made folks for life."
"Oh! You're going away again, Dorn?"
"Yes, but only for short voyages of a month or so at a time, and I'll
be over to see my little Mollie every time I'm in home port; and in
the fall, if not before, we'll be married. No more long voyages for
me."
"I'm so glad to hear you say that, dear; and I can wait patiently,
even happily, when I may see you sometimes." And, possibly for
happiness still, the girl began crying softly again.
"Come, come, little Mollie," said her sailor lover, consoling her with
a kiss, "there's no occasion to rig the pumps in such fair weather as
this."
Mary smiled through her tears, and dried her eyes.
"Now," he continued, "let me hear your voice, darling. Tell me
something."
"What shall I tell you?"
"Tell me again if you still love me."
For answer she put her arm around his neck, drew his face down to
hers, and kissed him. What words could have been so complete and
eloquent an assurance as that chaste and tender caress?
"My own dear little wife," he exclaimed, embracing her passionately.
"Don't call me 'wife' until I am one," she said, with assumed
earnestness, "for I'm told it's unlucky."
"Well, maybe it may be," he answered slowly and doubtingly. "There's
no denying that there is something in luck. Every sailorman knows
there are unlucky things, such as sailing on a Friday, and drowning a
cat, and lots more, and that may be so. Well, I won't take any chances
on it. But I've thought of you for eleven hundred days and nights as
my little wife, and the words sprang naturally to my lips. Still I'll
try not to call you so any more until we are married."
"And to prevent any harm from your indiscretion I suppose I must use
the counter-charm."
"And that is--?"
"To call you," and winding her arms again about his neck she whispered
in his ear, "my big husband."
And then, of course, there were more suitable ceremonials, endearments
and caresses, and mutual protestations of undying affection, such as
young people so circumstanced have always made, make yet, and
doubtless will make to the end of time.
How very short the time seemed to the lovers from the moment of their
meeting until by a glance at the stars, the true sailor's clock, Dorn
saw that it was near the hour for him to leave Elysium and hasten to
join a shipmate, who was waiting for him in a light sail-boat off
Napeague Inlet, to take him back to New London and the stern realities
of life. And so, after a final settlement as to the probable time of
his return from his first West Indian voyage; and a little more
previsionary talk about the happiness of which they were so well
assured the enjoyment in the coming autumn; and consequently more
love-making and caressing, all of which could have no interest for
anybody but themselves, the lovers parted.