"No more of winds and waves the sport,
Our vessel is arrived in port;
At anchor, see, she safely rides,
And gay red ropes adorn her sides.
The sails are furl'd, the sheets belay'd;
The flag that floats astern display'd,
Deserted are the useless shrouds,
The lasses row aboard by crowds.
Then come, my lads, let joy abound,
We're safely moor'd on English ground!"
* * * * * * * * * * *
It only remains for me to "muster by open list", as we say in the Royal Navy.
Let me say a word or two, then, about my dramatis personæ, and so clue up.
There are always a few surprises awaiting the sailor when he returns home after a long cruise. Jack looks forward to these with some anxiety, as the ship is getting nearer and still more near to the chalky cliffs of Old England. He thinks himself a very happy man indeed if these surprises turn out to be pleasant ones; which, alas! they are not always. Some dear one,—father, mother, wife, sister, or sweetheart, who ought to have come out in a shore-boat to meet him, is missing.
But there are friends alongside to bear him the sad tidings.
She is dead! He is dead!
And poor Jack had been so expectantly happy for days and weeks before this! He had entirely forgotten that there was any such thing as death in the world.
Look at his sadly bewildered face now.
"Courage, Jack, courage!" says some brave mess-mate with a tear in his eye. Jack returns the pressure of the hard yet friendly hand, but—goes down below to weep.