“Indeed! What were you singing about?” she added, abruptly. “What is ‘La Moine’? I caught the name.”
“I am glad you asked. On the coast near to Bar Harbor there is a little fishing-town, La Moine. The cod-fishers go out in a fleet from its small port in June, to the banks. The voyage, and, in fact, the whole life at sea of these brave fellows, is full of peril. When the home-bound fleet is sighted, the people go to the beach, and a lookout stays in the church-steeple. If he sees no flag flying from the nearest smack, it means that one or more men have been lost, and then the bells are silent. But if he sees the signal flag, all is well: there has been no life lost, and the bells ring out merrily.”
“What a pretty story! Tell me more, as the children say. It sounds like a bit of Brittany. It is the girl who sings?”
“Yes. A girl—the girl.”
“Who made the verses? Where did you find them?”
“A local poet,” and he smiled.
“Yourself?”
“Yes; when I get away from my work my brain is apt to run on such stuff.”
“Oh, I like them. Won’t you copy them for me?”
“You ask too much. But what am I to have in return?”