“Still onward, fair the breeze nor rough the surge,
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge;
Far on the horizon’s verge appears a speck,
A spot—a mast—a sail—an armed deck.”
Byron.
“Well, Ben,” I said, “life must have been very pleasant to me then.”
“And isn’t it now, Nie? isn’t it now, lad? Look at the beautiful old place that you have around you—all your own; you ought to be thankful. Listen to the birds on this delightful morning, their songs mingling with the cry o’ the wind through the poplars. And, lad, you cannot draw a breath out on the lawn here, without inhaling the odour of honey, and the perfume of flowers.”
“You are quite poetic, Ben Roberts,” I replied.
“Quite enough to make the barnacliest old tar that ever lived feel poetic, Nie,” quoth Ben.
“Well, fill your pipe again, Ben.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the old man, “fill my pipe again, eh? That means heave round with another yarn, eh?”
“Something very like it,” I said.