[to be continued.]
ONE OF THE OLD SAILOR'S YARNS.
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
t was a crisp morning in late October. All the land was sere and yellow, darkening away into brown shadows. The trees kept their garments of leaves, but these were ragged and sombre, as if the heat of summer had worn and burned them. The grass at the foot of the trees was brown and gray, and the bare branches of the field bushes made naked perches for belated birds. The sky was wan and faint near the rigid horizon, but deeply blue in the zenith; and the sun, far down the southern vault of the heavens, rolled westward in a glory of silver. The sea was of a gorgeous ultramarine color, with a dash of royal purple in its shadows, and a glitter of cold emerald in its transparent crests. A light nor'west wind barely ruffled its surface, yet sufficed to fill the sails of a score of schooners which were ploughing a snowy road to the southward.
Henry and George felt that it was a good day for yarns, and so they hurried out of the house immediately after breakfast and bent their steps toward the pier. There they saw their old friend in his familiar attitude, with his eyes fixed on two steamers which were rapidly approaching each other from opposite directions. He did not turn his head as the boys approached him, but said, in a meditative manner,