“I can’t think of the beginning,” Dick said slowly. “I learned it last winter, you know, but the third verse came to me when Will spoke. Perhaps I can think of the rest,” and in a voice low and tremulous at first, but growing stronger and clearer as the wind battled against it, he repeated,—
Once, tossed upon an angry, boiling sea,
A boat was dashed upon a dreary shore;
Heart-sick and like to die, his comrades three
Cried, “Cuthbert, let us perish! hope is o’er.
“The furious tempest shuts the water-path;
The snow-storm blinds us on the bitter land.”
“Now, wherefore, friends, have ye so little faith?”
God’s servant said, and stretching forth his hand,