Drift-wood is whatever bits of board, sticks, or timber the waves throw up and leave upon the sand. This drift-wood was collected at low water, dried in the sun, and supplied the people of the shore with their winter’s fuel.
Rosebud was delighted with this employment. The ocean was new to her, and she was never tired of looking at the foaming, tumbling waves, the sea-birds skimming over the water, the far-off white-sailed ships, or the smaller boats tossing up and down near the shore. For the beach was inhabited by fishermen who owned a great many boats. She longed to be in one of these, and sit riding all so lightly upon the waves.
And Grump promised to give her a boat-ride, for he could manage an oar very well.
“But not now,” said he, “while granny is watching, for if too little wood is got, then she will beat us. But when she goes to the town, then we’ll go, up and down, up and down, all day long. Shall you like that? What a funny name! Rosebud! Where did you come from? How white your face is! All but your cheeks, and they are the color of these pink shells! And what a pretty green robe!”
But Rosebud did not tell Grump where she came from. Rupert had told her it would not be well for the old woman to find it out. For she might take her to Magnus, in hopes of a reward.
Rosebud very soon became accustomed to the life of the shore, could run about on the sands barefoot, and lift her basketful with the rest. She never grew weary of watching the sea when the wind was high, or of picking up shells in the sands, or of being rowed about in the little boats by Grump, in the calm summer afternoons when work was over. Still, she had many sad hours, and would have had many more, only for the company of Grump, who was always full of talk, and ready to help.
“O, if I only had a white face,” said he one day. “A white face is so pretty. Would granny be very angry, Rosebud, if I washed my face again?”
Rosebud laughed at this.