“He’s going to fight with guns and be a tar.
See here: he’s wrote himself. The post was late.
He couldn’t write before. The ship is great!
She’s built, from keel to spar,
And called the Saratoga; and Jock’s got a scar
Already—” “Scar?” the mother quavered. “Wait,”
Jean rippled, “let me read.” “Quick, then, my dear,
He’ll want to hear—”
“Jock’s pa; I guess we’ll find him in the yard.
He ain’t scarce creepin’ round these days, poor Dan!”
She gripped Jean’s arm and stumbled as they ran,
And stopped once, breathing hard.
Around them chimney-swallows skimmed the sheep-cropped sward
And yellow hornets hummed. The sick old man
Stirred at their steps, and muttered from deep muse:
“Well, ma; what news?”
“From Jockie—there’s a letter!” In his chair
The bowed form sat bolt upright. “What’s he say?”
“He’s wrote to Jean. I guess it’s boys their way
To think old folks don’t care
For letters.” “Girl, read out.” Jean smoothed her wilding hair
And sat beside them. Out of the blue day
A golden robin called; across the road
A heifer lowed;
And old ears listened while youth read: “‘Friend Jean,
Vergennes: here’s where we’ve played a Yankee trick.
I’m layin’ in my bunk by Otter Crick
And scribblin’ you this mean
Scrawl for to tell the news—what-all I’ve heerd and seen:
Jennie, we’ve built a ship, and built her slick—
A swan!—a seven hundred forty tonner,
And I’m first gunner.
“‘You ought to seen us launch her t’other day!”
Tell dad we’ve christened her for a fight of hisn
He fought at Saratoga. Now just listen!
She’s twice as big, folks say,
As Perry’s ship that took the prize at Put-in-Bay;
Yet forty days ago, hull, masts, and mizzen,
The whole of her was growin’, live and limber,
In God’s green timber.
“‘I helped to fell her main-mast back in March.
The woods was snowed knee-deep. She was a wonder:
A straight white pine. She fell like roarin’ thunder
And left a blue-sky arch
Above her, bustin’ all to kindlin’s a tall larch.—
Mebbe the scart jack-rabbits skun from under!
Us boys hoorayed, and me and every noodle
Yelled Yankee Doodle!
“‘My, how we haw’d and gee’d the big ox-sledges
Haulin’ her long trunk through the hemlock dells,
A-bellerin’ to the tinkle-tankle bells,
And blunted our ax edges
Hackin’ new roads of ice ’longside the rocky ledges.
We stalled her twice, but gave the oxen spells
And yanked her through at last on the home-clearin’—
Lord, wa’n’t we cheerin’!
“‘Since then I’ve seen her born, as you might say:
Born out of fire and water and men’s sweatin’,
Blast-furnace rairin’ and red anvils frettin’
And sawmills, night and day,
Screech-owlin’ like ’twas Satan’s rumhouse run away
Smellin’ of tar and pitch. But I’m forgettin’
The man that’s primed her guns and paid her score:
The Commodore.
“‘Macdonough—he’s her master, and she knows
His voice, like he was talkin’ to his hound.
There ain’t a man of her but ruther’d drown’d
Than tread upon his toes;
And yet with his red cheeks and twinklin’ eyes, a rose
Ain’t friendler than his looks be. When he’s round,
He makes you feel like you’re a gentleman
American.