Catherine will one day be a hostess in whose drawing room no doubt politeness of the real old-fashioned kind will flourish.

THE LITTLE SEA DOGS

They are little sailors, real little sea dogs, every one. Look how they pull their caps down low on their necks so that the sea wind, misty and whistling, shall not split their ears with its terrible groanings. They wear suits of heavy wool, for protection against the cold and damp. Their made-over pea jackets and breeches were their elder brothers’ before them. Their garments in turn were made out of their fathers’ old suits. Their hearts too are of the same stuff as their father’s—simple, patient and full of courage. Since they came into the world they have been simple and big of heart. Who has made them so? After God and their fathers and mothers it is the ocean. The ocean teaches sailors courage through danger—a rude benefactor.

THEY LOOK FOR THE BOATS THAT SAILED FOR THE FISHING GROUNDS, AND THAT MUST NOW SOON APPEAR ON THE HORIZON LOADED TO THE GUNWALES, AND BRINGING BACK UNCLES AND OLDER BROTHERS AND FATHERS.

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That is why the little sailors, in their childish hearts, bear such brave thoughts. Stooping over the parapet of the stockade they look off over the sea. They see more than the thin blue line of boundary between the sky and sea. The ocean does not interest them for its fine changing colors, nor the sky for the huge grotesque shapes of its clouds. What they see off there in space is something more real to them than the tint of waters and the face of the clouds: something that they love. They look for the boats that sailed for the fishing grounds, and that must now soon appear on the horizon bringing back besides their full cargoes of shrimps, uncles and older brothers and fathers. The little fleet will soon show its white or weather-stained sails down there, between the ocean and God’s good sky. To-day the sky is clear, the ocean still: the tide brings the fishers gently to the shore. But the ocean is a changeable old veteran, who takes many forms and sings in many tones. To-day he smiles: to-morrow he will scold beneath his foamy beard. He will capsize the ablest ships, ships that have been blest by the priest with songs and Te Deums: he will drown his sturdiest patrons. It is his fault that one sees, outside the doors where the chaluts dry in the baskets, so many women wearing the black caps of widows.