"'You don't mean to say,' shouted my uncle, frantically, 'that Ned's in that boat?'
"'What's that you say?' screamed a voice behind us.
"We turned hastily round, and there stood my mother, without bonnet or shawl, her long hair loose, and streaming in the wind, and both hands clasped tightly over her bosom. Boys, I shall never forget that face. Years and years have gone by since then, but that white face, so full of horror, haunts me still. We tried to get her to go back home, but we might as well have tried to move a mountain; she would not stir from the beach, and all we could do was to try and infuse into her hope which, alas! we did not ourselves possess.
"Meanwhile the boat was steadily approaching the doomed vessel, which had struck, and over which the waves dashed; a flash of lightning for an instant revealed one of the men standing in the bows of the boat in the act of throwing a rope to those on board, and another showed that some were being transported from the vessel into the boat; then the rope was seen to be cast off and the men commenced rowing back to shore. Would they ever reach it in safety? How long the time appeared. At length the boat was discerned nearing the beach, and men had already rushed breast high into the sea in readiness to seize it and aid in drawing it safely to shore, when a huge wave was seen to overwhelm and swamp it in an instant.
"A cry of horror rose high above the noise of the tempest; and men and women ran frantically hither and thither, unable to lend a helping hand to those drowning close to land. A rope was tied round the body of one, who, rushing into the boiling surf, firmly clasped one poor wretch in his arms, and both were drawn safely to shore. Again, and yet again, did the noble fellow rush into the angry sea, each time rescuing one from death. How eagerly we bent over each, as they were brought to shore, to see if our Ned was the fortunate one, and how heavy grew our hearts as each inspection proved fruitless. Seven had been thus rescued from a watery grave—a woman among the number—ere our Ned was brought to shore, and then the sea had beaten the brave life out of him, and it was only the senseless body we received, while in his arms, and held so tightly in his death grip, that she could not be removed, was a little three-year-old girl. We afterwards learnt that when the heavy sea struck the boat, Ned was seen to snatch up the child and clasp it firmly in his arms. And now both were dead. Ours was a sorrowful home that night; my mother's grief was something awful to see, and such as I never wish to witness again, and over which I will draw a veil of silence.
"Our Ned was buried in a little churchyard not far from the sea, and all the fishermen along the coast turned out and followed the coffin to the grave, and stood reverently round, with their caps in their hand, and their weather-beaten features working convulsively, while the clergyman read the burial service. The little child was laid in the same grave; she was the daughter of the rescued woman, and the master of the ill-fated ship—who with many another went to his long home on that awful night.
"My mother, boys, never recovered from the shock poor Ned's death gave her: she drooped and drooped, until God's messenger came to lead her to her lost son.
"One of my companions, who had a turn for verse-making, put into my hand a few lines which he said were suggested by poor Ned's death. They were not of much account, but I learnt them, and sometimes even now repeat them as a trifling memento of a lost brother:
Autumn winds are in the sky;
Autumn leaves are whirling by;
Autumn rain falls pattering;
Autumn time goes clattering
On in storm,
While onward borne
To desolate shore,
Billows rage and roar:
On dark waters tost,
A plaything lost,
The big ship creaks and groans,
Starts and moans.
And sailors' oaths, and sailors' prayers,
To wild night cast,
With sea-bird's screams,
Are carried by the blast,
To happy home, where
A mother dreams;
While the son she bore,
Lies still on the shore.
At break of day,
The salt sea spray
Is washing the sand
From the clenched hand;
And the breezes twirl
The glossy curl;
And the silent face,
Without a trace
Of life, lies
Upturned to the skies.
And the sightless eyes,
Their last work done,
Stare up at the sun.
"That, boys, was the end of poor Ned. Those who die young escape much sorrow, says the proverb; and the old heathens used to say that those who died young the gods loved; but we hear a more sure voice saying, 'Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.'"