You dream what a nice thing it would be for you to slip away some
pleasant morning,--not to York, as young Crusoe did, but to New
York,--and take passage as a sailor; and how, if they knew you were
going, there would be such a world of good-byes; and how, if they did
not know it, there would be such a world of wonder!
And then the sailor's dress would be altogether such a jaunty affair;
and it would be such rare sport to lie off upon the yards far aloft, as
you have seen sailors in pictures, looking out upon the blue and
tumbling sea. No thought now, in your boyish dreams, of sleety storms,
and cables stiffened with ice, and crashing spars, and great icebergs
towering fearfully around you!
You would have better luck than even Crusoe; you would save a compass,
and a Bible, and stores of hatchets, and the captain's dog, and great
puncheons of sweetmeats, (which Crusoe altogether overlooked;) and you
would save a tent or two, which you could set up on the shore, and an
American flag, and a small piece of cannon, which you could fire as
often as you liked. At night you would sleep in a tree,--though you
wonder how Crusoe did it,--and would say the prayers you had been taught
to say at home, and fall to sleep, dreaming of Nelly and Charlie.
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