He drives away blues from the whole
Grand Banks.
May health and heartiness never fail
My friend the Whale--my friend the Whale!
“AS BESEEMETH MEN”
We heard her a mile to west’ard--the liner that
cut us through--
As crushing the fog at a twenty-jog she drove
with her double screw.
We heard her a mile to west’ard as she bel-
lowed to clear her path,
The grum, grim grunt of her whistle, a levia-
than’s growl of wrath.
We could tell she was aimed to smash us, so
we clashed at our little bell,
But the sound was shredded by screaming wind
and we simply rung our knell.
And the feeble breath, that screamed at Death
through our horn, was beaten back,
And we knew that doom rode up the sea to-
ward the shell of our tossing smack.
Then out of the fog she thundered, the liner,
smashing to east;
Her green and her red glared overhead and her
bows were spouting yeast.
The eyes of her reddened hawse-holes, her
dripping and towering flanks,
Flashed with no gleam of mercy for her quarry
on the Banks.
She scornfully spurned us under, the while her
whistle brayed,
Nor heeded the crash of our little craft nor the
feeble chirp we made;
And as down we swept, her folk that slept--
they slumbered serenely still,
And even the lookout on the bridge scarce felt
the thud and thrill.
But they jangled her bells and halted; and the
sullen sea they swept
With the goggling gleam of the searchlight’s
beam. A dozen of us had crept
On the mass of the tangled wreckage she con-
temptuously had tossed
A mile astern in the chop and churn. The
others were drowned--were lost!
There was never a whine nor whimper, only
some muttered groans,
As the ocean buffeted martyrs who clung there
with shattered bones,
And those whose grip was broken as the surge
reeled creaming high,
Went out from the ken of the searchlight with
a hoarse but brave “Good-by.”
In the great white light no sign of fright stole
wrinkling o’er a face,
For the men of the Banks know How to die
when Davy trumps their ace.
And better than simply dying--they can cheer-
fully, bravely give
Life, heart, and head in a comrade’s stead if
they deem that he ought to live.
For there in the searchlight’s glory, the night
that they cut us down,
Old Injun Joe gave up his cask that another
might not drown.
Old Joe was a lone world-rover, the other had
babes on land;
No word was said, but Joe went down with a
wave of his dripping hand.
And ere the lifeboats reached us and gathered
our scattered few,
We saw that night what so long we’d known,
that a Glo’ster fishing crew,
Rude and rough and grimed and gruff, had
calmly shown again
That on sea or sod they can meet their God in
the way that beseemeth men!
Then over her sullen bulwarks, as she stamped
and chafed and rolled,
From the night and wreck to her dazzling deck
climbed we--and our tale was told.
And the dainty folk from her staterooms lis-
tened and gazed and said,
As they tiptoed across our dripping trail,
“How awful!”--then went to bed.
And our half-score left, of all bereft--com-
rades and gear and smack--
Sat hoping our wreck would tell no tales till
our scattered few came back.
And haughtily unrepentant, the liner, insolent
still,
Through foam and spume and fog and gloom
drove on to wreak her will.
Were only her zeal less eager, her lust for her
prey less keen,
She must have sensed that horrid chill that
shuddered from One Unseen.
But onward she plunged unheeding that there
in the vast, black sea,
As grim as Fate there lay in wait One mightier
than she.
A ghost in white before her--the fog its som-
bre pall--
And she crushed herself like dead-ripe fruit
against the iceberg’s wall.
Then up from her perfumed cabins came pour-
ing the rich and proud,
And I--poor Glo’ster fisher--I blushed for
that maddened crowd.
There were men in silken night-gear who
fought frail women back,
There were pampered fools who, fierce as
ghouls, left murder in their track;
There were shrieking men whose jeweled
hands dragged children from a boat
And rode away in the babies’ stead when the
life-craft went afloat.
’Tis not for boast that I tell the rest: we’re
not of the boasting kind--
We folks that sail from Glo’ster town; but you
know you’ll sometimes find
A man who sneers at a tattered coat or a sun-
burned fist or face,
And believes that only blood or purse can
honor the human race.
Forlorn and few, our battered crew had stared
at Death that night;
Perhaps we’d known him so long and well his
mien did not affright.
Perhaps we hide here in our hearts, below the
rags and tan,
The honest stuff, unplaned and rough, that
really makes the man.
For we bared our arms and we stormed the
press--of safety took no care;
We dragged those wretches from the boats--
then placed the women there.
No time had we for the courtly “Please!” If
a poltroon answered “No,”
We gave him the thing that a man reserves for
the coward’s case--a blow.
It isn’t a boast, I say again; but we stayed till
all had passed,
Then the ragged coats of those Glo’ster men
went over her lee rail last.
And three of the few of our scattered crew,
who had twice dared Fate that night,
Went down in the rush of the whirlpool’s tow
when the liner swooped from sight.
We ask no praise, we seek no heights above
our chosen place,
But the men of the Banks know how to die
when Davy trumps their ace.
And if need arise for a sacrifice we’ve shown,
and we’ll show again,
That on sea or sod we can meet our God in
the way that beseemeth men.
THE NIGHT OF THE WHITE REVIEW
The mandate that summons them nobody
knows,
Nor whose is the mystical word
That bids the vast breast of the ocean unclose,
When the depths are so eerily stirred.
There are omens of ocean and portents of sky
That the eyes of the banksman may read;
The wind tells its menace by moan or a sigh
To any one giving it heed.
Yet, fathom the whorl of a cloud though he
may--
Interpret the purr of the sea--
No weatherwise fisherman truly may say
When the Drift of the Drowned shall be.
_This alone we know:
Ere days of the autumn blow,
Up from the swaying ocean deeps appears the
grisly show.
And woe to the fated crew
Who behold it passing through--
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review._
Whence issue these fleets for their grim ren-
dewous
And their hideous cruise, who may know?
Yet they traverse the Banks ere the winter
storms brew,
Their pennon the banner of woe.
We know that from Quero far west to the
Shoals.-
The prodigal bottom is spread
With bones and with timbers--“Went down
with all souls,”
Tells the story of Gloucester’s dead.
And up with those souls come those vessels
again
On that mystical eve in the fall;
Then out of the night to the terror of men
They sail with the fog for a pall.
_And down the swimming deep,
As the fishers lie asleep,
These craft loom out of the great, black night,
and past the living sweep.
And woe to that fated crew
Who behold them passing through--
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review_.
Now here and now yonder some helmsman
sings hail
As the awful procession stalks past,
And the horrified crew tumbles up to the rail
To gaze on the marvel, aghast.
And then through that night, when the fishers
ride near,
There’s a hail and a husky halloo:
“Did you see”--and the voice has a quiver of
fear--
“Did you see the White Banksmen sail
through?”
There are those who may see them--and those
who may not,
Though they peer to the depths of the night;
Ah, ye who behold them, alas for the lot
That grants you such ominous sight.
_It augurs death and dole--
That the Gloucester bells will toll--
Means another stone on Windmill Hill: “Went
down with every soul.”
For it’s woe to that fated creva
Who behold them passing through--
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester -fleets
on the Night of the White Review._
’Tis a mournful monition from those gone
before--
That phantom procession of Fate;
But’tis only the craven that flees to the shore,
For the fisher must work and must wait--
Must wait for the storm that shall carry him
down,
Must work with his dory and trawl;
There are women and babies in Gloucester town
Who are hungry. So God for us all 1
Though mystic and silent and pallid and weird
Those ominous Banksmen may roam,
Though Death trails above them, where’er they
are steered,
We’ll work for the babies at home.
_The Banks will claim their toll,
And Fate makes up the roll
Of those with the humble epitaph: “Went
dozen with every soul.”
And it’s woe to that fated crew
Who behold them passing through--
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review._
THE BALLAD OF ORASMUS NUTE
There once was a Quaker, Orasmus Nute,
With a physog as stiff as a cowhide boot,
And he skippered a ship from Georgetown, Maine,
In the’way-back days of the pirates’ reign.
And the story I tell it has to do
With Orasmus Nute and a black flag crew;
The tale of the upright course he went
In the face of a certain predicament.
For Orasmus Nute was a godly man
And he faithfully followed the Quaker plan
Of love for all and a peaceful life
And a horror of warfare and bloody strife.
While above the honors of seas and fleets
He prized his place on “the facing seats.”
Ah, Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute,
He never disgraced his plain drab suit.
Now often he sailed for spice and teas
’Way off some place through the Barbary seas;
And once for a venture his good ship bore
Some unhung grindstones, a score or more.
Now, never in all of his trips till then
Had he spoken those godless pirate men.
But it chanced one day near a foreign shore
The sail of a strange craft toward him bore;
And as soon as the rig was clearly seen
The mate allowed’twas a black lateen.
Now a black lateen, as all men knew,
Was the badge of a bold, bad pirate crew.
So the mate he crammed to its rusty neck
A grim “Long Tom” on the quarter deck,
Then leaned on its muzzle a bit to pray
And waited to hear what the skipper would say.
For Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute
Had stepped below for to change his suit.
He asked as he came on deck again,
“Does thee really think those are pirate men?”
“Yea, verily,” answered the Quaker mate,
“And they come at a most unseemly gait.”
Orasmus Nute looked over the rail
At the bulging sweep of the huge black sail;
Said he, “We are keeping our own straight
path,
And I’m sorry to harm those men of wrath
Yet, brother, perchance we are justified
In letting Thomas rebuke their pride.
We’ll simply give ’em a dash of fright.
So be sure, my friend, thee have aimed just
right.”
He squinted his eye along the rust,
“Now shoot,” said he, “if thee thinks thee
must.”
Ker-boomo! the old Long Thomas roared,
And the big lateen flopped overboard.
And Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute,
Seemed puzzled to find that he could shoot.
“Now what are those sinful men about?”
He asked, as he heard a hoarse, long shout.
And the Quaker mate he answered, “Lo!
They’ve out with their oars, and here they
row!”
“Now, what in the name of William Penn,”
Cried Orasmus Nute, “can ail those men?
Perchance they are after our load of stones,
Will thee roll them up here, Brother Jones?
We’ll save them all of the work we can--
As a Quaker should for his fellow man.”
So as soon as the fierce, black pirate drew
Up’longside, that Quaker crew
Rolled those grindstones down pell-mell,
And every stone smashed through the shell
Of the pirate zebec, and down it went,
And all of the rascals to doom were sent,
While Orasmus Nute leaned over the side,
“No thanks, thee’rt welcome, my friends,” he
cried.
It chanced one wretch from the sunken craft
Made a clutch at a rope that was trailing aft,
And up he was swarming with frantic hope,
When Orasmus cried, “Does thee want that
rope? ”
So he cut it away with one swift hack
With a smile for the pirate as he dropped back.
And the Quaker skipper surveyed the sea
“God loveth the generous man,” quoth he.
Then Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute
Went down and resumed his Quaker suit.
THE DORYMAN’S SONG
_Dory here an’ Dora there,
They keep a man a-guessin’;
An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare,
--Then home for the parson’s blessin’!_
Ruddy an’ round as the skipper’s phiz, out of
the sea he rolls,
--The fisherman’s sun, an’ the day’s begun for
the men on the Grand Bank shoals.
With pipe alight an’ snack stowed tight under
a bulgin’ vest,
I’ll over with dory an’ in with the trawls for
the wind is fair sou’ west.
--The wind is fair sou’ west,
The fish-slick stripes the crest
Of every curlin’, swingin’ an’ swirlin’, billowin’
ocean-guest,
That sweeps to the wind’ard rail
An’ under the bulgin’ sail
Seems wavin’ its welcome with clots of foam
that are tossed by the roguish gale.
_Dory here an’ Dora there,
‘Way over yon at Glo’stcr;
Those clots of foam seem letters from
home
To pledge I haven’t lost her._
Friskily kickin’, the dories dance, churnin’ the
foamin’ lee,
With a duck an’ a dive an’ a skip an’ skive--
the bronchos of the sea.
Sheerin’ an’ veerin’ with painter a-flirt, like a
frolicsome filly’s tail,
--Now a sweep on the heavin’ deep, close to
the saggin’ rail,
--Close to the saggin’ rail,
Jump! If you cringe or fail,
You’re doin’ a turn in the wake astern in the
role of a grampus whale.
As she poises herself to spring,
--Nimble an’ mischievous thing,
There’s only the flash of a second of time to
capture her on the wing.
_Dory here an’ Dora there!
Sure, they drive me frantic.
For one she swims on the ocean of whims,
An’ one on the broad Atlantic._
Sowin’ the bait from the trawl-heaped tubs, I
pull at my old T. D.
An’ I dream of a pearl of a Glo’ster girl, who’s
waitin’ at home for me;
Statin’ she’s waitin’ is not to say she’s prom-
ised as yet her hand,
For she’s wild as my dory--she keeps me in
worry;--they’re hard to understand.
--They’re hard to understand,
But I’ve got the question planned,
Please God, I’ll know if it’s weal or woe as
soon as I get to land.
For a man who can catch the swing,
Of a dory--mischievous thing--
Has certainly grit to capture a chit of a maid
about to spring.
_Dory here an’ Dora there!
They keep a man a-guessin’,
An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare,
Then home for the parson’s blessin’._
[Illustration: 0091]
WE FELLERS DIGGIN’ CLAMS
Pluck, pluck,
Pluck, pluck!
Stubbin’ acrost the clam-flat muck!
Ev’ry time I lift my huck,
--Hearin’ the heel of my old boot suck,
It seems to me that a word plops out,
And I’ve listened so often there ain’t no
doubt
It’s pluck, pluck, pluck.
And pluck and the job they jest agree
--Dig clams, my lad, for a while and see!
It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness an’ it ain’t for
shiny boots,
But still--ye know,’tain’t bad!
It ain’t an occurpation for the millionaire ga-
loots,
But’tain’t so mighty wuss, my lad.
It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness where there ain’t
no room for doubt
As to what’ull be the profit and where ye’re
cornin’ out.
For there ain’t no books and ledgers, and no
botherin’ with deals,
No dodgin’ law and lawyers and no stock con-
trivin’ steals.
Simply take a leaky dory and a basket and a
hoe,
And you’re fixed for doin’ bus’ness--ev’ry fel-
ler has a show.
When the old Atlantic ocean pulls away his
swashin’ tide
Why, the bank is there ‘before you and the
doors are opened wide;
The flats are there etarnal and you never find
the sign
Sayin’, “Bank has shet up business--pres’-
dent’s skipped acrost the line.”
Shuck away yer co’t and weskit, grab the clam-
hoe’s muddy haft,
And endorsed by grit and muscle you’ll get
cash on ev’ry draft.
For yer check-book’s there, the clam flat; and
yer pen, sir, is the hoe,
And accounts are balanced daily by the ocean’s
ebb and flow.
Then the climbin’, crawlin’ water rubs the dig-
gin’ marks away,
And the clams are jest as plenty when you
come another day.
And the sleep that follers labor kind of smooths’-
us, as the tide
Smooths the nickin’s on the clam-flats where
our busy hoes have pried.
So the nights are nights of comfort and I
mostly can forget
That the days are days of diggin’,--cold and
muddy, lame and wet.
For Fd rather have a backache than a rattled,
burnin’ brain,
And I guess I’m fair contented with the clam
flats here in Maine.
For I’m thinkin’ worried critters in the rushin’,
pushin’ jams
Likely’nough ain’t nigh so happy as we fellers
diggin’ clams.
DAN’L AND DUNK
Dan’l and Dunk and the yaller dog were the
owners and crew of the Pollywog,
A hand-line smack that cuffed the seas’twixt
’Tinicus Head and Point Quahaug.
Dunk owned half and Dan owned half, and the
yaller dog was also joint,
They fished and ate and swapped their bait and
always agreed on every point.
--Dunk to Dan and Dan to Dunk,--
Whenever he chawed would pass the
hunk;
Never a “hitch” more friendly than
That of the dog and Dunk and Dan.
They labored steady and labored square, fairly
dividing every fare,
And never could anything break their bonds,
each to the other would often swear.
But alas, one day in a joking way they fell on
the topic of years and age,
And tackled the subject of boughten teeth, and
spirited argument they did wage.
For Dan insisted that sets of teeth were glued
to the sides of the wearers’ jaws,
--Never had seen ’em, he frankly owned, but
he knew ’twas so, “wal, jest because.”
While Dunk, with notions fully as firm, clawed
at his frosty whisker fringe,
And allowed that he knew that sets of teeth
were hitched together with spring and
hinge.
So, still perverse, they argued on--the quarrel,
you see, was their very first;
’Twas as though they had taken a sip of brine;
the more they quaffed, the worse their
thirst.
They argued early and argued late and the dog
surveyed them with wistful look
For, the more they talked the worse they
balked, and forgot to fish or eat or cook.
Dan at Dunk and Dunk at Dan,
--On contention ran and ran,
And rancor spread its sullen fog
‘Twixt Dunk and Dan and the yaller
dog.
At last old Dunk uprose and cried, “Say old
hoss-mack’ril, blast yer hide,
I’m sick of clack and fuss and gab; it’s time, I
reckin, that we divide.
An’ seein’ as how I’ve spoke the fust, I’ll take
the starn-end here for mine.”
With chalk he zoned the dingy deck and roared,
“Git for’rard acrost that line!”
He lighted his pipe and twirled the wheel and
calmly then he crossed his knees.
“Go for’rard,” said he, “this end is mine an’
I’ll steer jest where I gol-durn please.”
For’rard went Dan with never a word, never
protested, never demurred,
But as soon as he reached the cat-head bolt the
sound of hammer on steel was heard.
Splash! went the anchor, and there they swung,
fast to the bottom on Doghead shoal;
“The bow-end’s mine,” yelled Dan to Dunk,
“now steer if ye want to, blast yer soul!”
Dunk to Dan, and Dan to Dunk--
Swore they’d sit there till she sunk.
Neither to compromise would incline,
And the dog stood straddling the mid-
dle line.
I’ll frankly own I cannot state how long en-
dured that sullen wait,
I only know they never returned and no one
ever has learned their fate.
Perhaps a gale with a lashing tail, champing
and roaring and frothing wild,
Clawed them tinder, as there they rode, or a
hooting liner over them piled.
But known it is that for days and weeks the
schooner swayed and sogged and tossed,
Straining her rusty cable-chains, before all
trace of her was lost.
No one knows how they met their death, but
certain it is that Dunk and Dan,
Each decided he’d rather die than surrender a
point to the other man.
Perhaps, at the end of a month or so, Dunk de-
cided he’d sink his half,
Or Dan touched match and burned his end,
then went to death with a scornful laugh.
However it was, this much is sure, that out
from the Grand Banks’ sombre fog,
Never came back the Pollywog smack, or
Dunk or Dan or the yaller dog.
THE AWFUL WAH-HOOH-WOW
_She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor, with a
weary, lear y list,
An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;
She’s sound in ev’ry timber--is the Mary of
the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer--
The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ here I give the
tale.
(The story has a warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,
An’’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)_
Peter Perkinson, a P. I. from Prince Edward
Island, signed
With Foster’s folks of Gloucester for a
“chancin’ trip,” hand-lined;
An’ when we counted noses as we rounded
Giant’s Grist
We found the chap among us on the Mary of
the Mist.
An’ we sized him for a “conjer” ere we’d
fairly got to sea;
The wind was whiffin’ crooked, jest as mean as
mean could be;
“_P. I.” is colloquial term for Prince Edward
Islander_.
Then the skipper spied the P. I. fubbin’ secret
at the mast,
An’ at once he got suspicious an’ he overhauled
him fast.
The chap had made some markin’s an’ he’d
driven in a nail--
Oh, we understood him perfect--he was raisin’
up a gale.
The skipper gave him tophet, but the damage
then was done--
The gale came up a-roarin’ with the settin’ of
the sun.
Then we wallered to the west’ard an’ we wal-
lered to the east,
An’ we seemed the core an’ bowels of a gob of
wind an’ yeast.
We smashed our way to suth’ard, an’ we clawed
an’ ratched to west,
There was scarcely time for eatin’; there was
never chance for rest,
With the liners slammin’ past us through the
fog an’ spume an’ rain,
An’ the Mary dodgin’ passers like a puppy in a
lane.
The third day found us flappin’ with a mighty
ragged wash,
The lee rail runnin’ under an’ the trawl tubs all
a-swash,
An’ at last the plummet told us we were backin’
to’ards the shoals,
Yet we couldn’t ratch an’ leave ’em with our
canvas rags an’ holes.
T ack--tack--tack--
Still a-slippin’ back;
‘Twas a time for meditatin’ on the prospects
for our souls.
Then up spoke Isaac Innis, with a starin’,
glarin’ glance,
An’ he says: “My friends, I’m lookin’
where I look!
I hain’t a saint in no way, an’ I’ll give a man a
chance,
But I think I see a Jonah if I hain’t a lot
mistook.
I reckon ye discern him,
Now over goes he, durn him,
Unless he squares the Hoodoo that he’s
brought, by hook or crook.”
(We stood there, grim an’ solemn, an’ we
bent our gaze upon
The stranger “conjer” sailor, that P. I.--
Perkinson.)
He never flinched nor quivered, though we’d
reckoned that he would,
He simply turned an’ faced us, an’ he says: “I
meant ye good.
I asked a breeze from suth’ard, but it slipped
an’ got away;
Still, you needn’t worry, shipmates! When I
owe a debt I’ll pay.”
He reeved a coil of hawser that the Mary car-
ried spare,
An’ fastened on a gang-hook an’ baited it with
care.
Then he took a magic vial an’ he sprinkled on
the bait
A charm that Splithoof gave him, it is safe to
calkerlate.
He hitched a dagon-sinker an’ he let the line
run free,
An’ overboard he fired it, kersplasho, in the
sea,
We didn’t get the language of the secret spells
he said,
But we gathered he was fishin’ on the deepest
ocean bed.
We heard him as he muttered an’ it seemed
that he could tell
What kind of fish was bitin’, with an eyesight
straight from hell.
“Ah, brim,” he sort o’ chanted as he gave the
line a twig--
An’ must pay his lawful tribute to the awful
Wah-hooh-wow.
We saw Its neck a-curvin’ an’ we heard Its red
tongue lick
As It drooled an’ swoofed the drippin’s, and
then, as one might pick
A ripe an’ juicy cherry, It grabbed that “con-
jer” man
An’ sank with coils a-flashin’ in the light from
old Cape Ann,
An’ we--we towed with dories till we got to
Gloucester shore--
An’ you’ll never get a Banksman on the Mary
any more.
No--no--no!
Not a man will go,
For her towage fee hain’t settled till the Wah-
hooh-wow takes four.
She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor with a
weary, leary list,
An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;
She’s sound in ev’ry timber--is the Mary of
the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer--
The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ I’ve given you the
tale.
(The story has a Warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,
An’’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)
SKIPPER JASON ELLISON
His nose was like a liver hung against a Hub-
bard squash,
--That nose of Jason Ellison, the skipper of
the “Hanks.”
His nose was like a liver and the color wouldn’t
wash,
But the men that “chanced” on trips with him,
they always got the dosh,.
For there wa’n’t another skipper who could
touch him on the Banks.
Whether biz was tight or slack,
--When Jase came sailin’ back
A gang was always coaxin’ for a berth upon
his smack.
Not another Gloucester skipper
Had sech easy job to ship a
Topper-notcher fishin’ crew, with ev’ry man a
crack.
For, you see, he was a wizard;--he did won-
ders with that nose,
He could sniff and tell the weather-sign of ev’ry
gust that rose;
You could figure from its color’twas a most
uncommon snoot,