Then he had his mathematical books. Oh, yes, he had plenty of time to study, and good use he made of it too.
It seemed to him, moreover, that instead of hard manual labour injuring his constitution, he was waxing stronger every day. His limbs were as stiff as gate-posts, his biceps was as hard as the mainstay of an Aberdeen clipper. He found himself singing, too, at all odd times, and somehow the songs he sang always bore some relation to his present calling; as, for example—
THE BOATIE ROWS.
Oh, weel may the boatie row
That fills a heavy creel,
An’ clothes us a’ frae top to toe,
An’ buys our porridge-meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows indeed,
An’ happy be the lot o’ a’
That wish the boatie speed.
Or that other tuneful fisher’s song called—
CALLER HERRIN’.
Wha’ll buy our caller herrin’?
They’re bonnie fish and halesome fairin’;
Wha’ll buy our caller herrin’,
Just new come frae the Forth?
When you’re sleepin’ on your pillows,
Dream ye aught of our poor fellows,
Darkling, as they face the billows,
A’ to fill their woven willows.
Buy, buy, &c.
It was on the Monday evening preceding what was long known in the little village of Blackhive as Black Tuesday, and the fishing was well-nigh at its close. Some boats indeed had been taken off the stations, and had borne up for the South. They would fish for a week or two perhaps near the Forth, then sail still farther south to the shores of Norfolk, making Yarmouth itself their headquarters.
Storms are not unfrequent on the shores of England at this time of year, and it is the marvel of the Southern fishermen how those hardy denizens of far northern latitudes can dare all the dangers of the deep in their open boats, which, by the way, in build, and probably also in rig, are not unlike the warships of the Vikings of old. It would really seem that in some instances those fishermen are the lineal descendants of the fearless Norsemen, who were, probably, the first to wage real warfare on the bosom of the mighty ocean.