A ship’s work is never done. All the time something is giving way and
must be repaired; the sails are to be patched, ropes replaced, and day
and night orders issue for taking in or making sail. None in particular
are designated for ordinary work, but the order is given to the watch
on deck: “Go aloft, some of you, and do this or that,” when they all
spring into the shrouds; and when it is seen that enough are on their
way the hindmost fall back.
In good weather, the sails which need mending are spread on the deck
and subjected to the needle. The thimble instead of being on a finger
is fixed on a leather “palm,” which is drawn over the hand and affords
the means of giving a strong push. It is composing to sit by and watch
the sewing, or to lie in your hammock soothed by the measured monotony
of the stitching and the plashing water. It is doubtful whether
anything furnishes an invalid with more complete repose than a life on
board a well-appointed sailing ship.