I strolled down to the sea-shore that hemmed the margin of the marsh, and sat down upon the beach to listen to the wash of the water upon the pebbles as the tide went out. It was one of those serene evenings that are made for dreaming; the sea was calm, and melted into the sky, with a little haze upon the horizon; streaks of varied shades crossed it in lines, brown upon the shallows, palest green beyond, blue where the water deepened, and darker still where the shadow of passing clouds fell upon its bosom. A fishing-boat, with brown sail flapping idly, lay becalmed in the offing; a steamer crossed the distance. The light-house at the end of the long, faint pink line, that was the far point that swept out into the ocean, seemed scarcely to be on land at all, but a mere speck of white in a veil of haze at sea; even the shipping in the harbor, but two miles away, had a phantom look, although the distant cliffs to my right could not but be stable and stately even in that languid atmosphere.
It was all so peaceful and pleasant that I forgot the storms that oftentimes raged upon it, and although I was not actively happy I was passively content, involuntarily wrapped around by the soothing influence of the world that had been all the world to me until six months ago.
I began thinking of the days—not so very long past—when I knew no excitement so great as to be out with the fisher-lads fishing for mackerel. Mother would not allow me to go out when it was very stormy, so it was days of comparative calm that I remembered, and one night in special when I had leave to go out with Reuben and an old fisherman by torchlight. It was in the month of November—a cold, clear night—and we fished for herring. There had been just enough of a swell not to make the adventure tame, but the stars had shone calmly, and the haul had been a good one. At the time, I had thought much more about the haul of fish than about the stars, but now I remembered that the stars had shone calmly. A longing came over me to be once more on the sea.
The old fisherman with whom I had been out that night was dead, I knew; but there were others whom I had known, and with a sudden impulse I got up from the shingle, and began walking towards the fishing village hard by. It was but a handful of little low cottages, with a rough inn in the middle—a wild, strange place, alone on the border of the marsh with the wind and the sea.
I met one of my friends coming along the beach; he was going for his shrimping-net, for the tide was going out, and in another hour the work would begin. He came slouching along, with his old faded blue jersey rolled up around his waist, and his woollen cap cocked over his eyes to keep out the slanting rays of the late sun.
"Good-day to you, Eben," I called out. His name was Ebenezer, but everybody called him Eben. "Are you going to take up the nets this afternoon, or it is too calm?"
The old fellow—not so very old, but weather-beaten into an appearance that might mean any age from forty to sixty—pursed up his dry lips and looked out over the water. The yellow sail of the fishing-boat yonder had swelled out; there was a little breeze getting up.
"We might put out," he said, "though it's touch and go if it'd be worth while. Do you want to go out?"
"Yes, I should like to go," said I. "It's a long while since I've been on the water."
Eben looked at me. I don't know if he saw anything in my face different from what used to be there, but he said, quite sympathetically, "Well, 'tis mopin' work being always on dry land."