So ran the words of the “Mariner’s Hymn,” and Ronald, who always wanted to know the reason of things, said thoughtfully one night when they had finished singing: “Why do we cry to God to help those in peril on the sea, Daddy? It’s the Light that helps them, isn’t it?”
“Hush! Ronnie, you’re not thinking,” cried his mother. “Who made the sea and the sailors? Who gave his brains to the man who thought of the Light and set it here? The Light is but a senseless thing and needs some one to tend it, as well you know your father does both night and day.”
“Oh—h!” murmured Ronald, “I see!”
“You’re a funny boy!” commented Lesley, as usual.
“Sleep-ery, head-ery,
Better go to bed-ery!”
“Oh-ery, no-ery,
Don’t want to go-ery,”
cried Ronald, at which his father lifted his head from the “Lighthouse Journal,” saying, “‘Gude bairnies cuddle doon at nicht’—you know the poetry your mother tells you.”
The children were often allowed to climb the corkscrew stairs with their parents to see the Light and even to open the little door in the masonry and go out on the iron-railed gallery that ran around the tower, holding tight to Father’s or Mother’s hand while they gazed at the blue waters of the Pacific and counted the white sails on the horizon.