“Sure,” said Uncle Simon, mysteriously, “they do be in the sea the shape o’ all that’s on the land—shape for shape, sir. They be sea-horses an’ sea-cows an’ sea-dogs, Why not the shape o’ humans?”
“Well,” said Aunt Ruth, “’twas when I were a little maid. An’ ’twas in a gale o’ wind. I goes down t’ Billy Cove t’ watch me father bring the punt in, an’ I couldn’t see un anywhere. So I thought he were drownded. ’Twere handy t’ dark when I seed the merman rise from the water. He were big an’ black—so black as the stove. I could see the eyes of un so plain as I can see yours. He were not good lookin’—no, I’ll say that much—he were not good lookin’. He waved his arms, an’ beckoned an’ beckoned an’ beckoned. But, sure, sir, I wouldn’t go, for I were feared. ‘’Tis the soul o’ me father,’ thinks I. ‘Sure, the sea’s cotched un.’ So I runs home an’ tells me mother; an’ she says ’twere a merman. I knows they be mermans an’ mermaids, ’cause I’se seed un. ’Tis what we sees we believes.”
“’Tis said,” said Uncle Simon, “that if you finds un on the rocks an’ puts un in the water they gives you three wishes; an’ all you has t’ do is wish, an’——”
“’Tis said,” said Aunt Ruth, with a prodigious frown across the table, “that the mermaids trick the fishermen t’ the edge o’ the sea an’ steals un away. Uncle Simon Ride,” she went on, severely, “if ever you——”
Uncle Simon looked sheepish. “Sure, woman,” said he, the evidences of guilt plain on his face, “they be no danger t’ me. ’Twould take a clever mermaid t’——”
“Uncle Simon Ride,” said Aunt Ruth, “nar another word. An’ if you don’t put my spinnin’ wheel t’ rights this night I’ll give you your tea in a mug[[4]] t’-morrow—an’ mind that, sir, mind that!”
After we had left the table Uncle Simon took me aside. “She do be a wonderful woman,” said he, meaning Aunt Ruth. Then, earnestly, “She’ve no cause t’ be jealous o’ the mermaids. No, sir—sure, no.”
It is difficult to convey an adequate conception of the barrenness of this coast. If you were to ask a fisherman of some remote outport what his flour was made of he would stare at you and be mute. “Wheat” would be a new, meaningless word to many a man of those places. It may be that the words of the Old Skipper of Black Harbour will help the reader to an understanding of the high value set upon the soil and all it produces.
“Come with me,” said the Old Skipper, “an’ I’ll show you so fine a garden as ever you seed.”