'Cos, as for the weather, there 'twas,
an', as Joe remarked, 'twasn' going to move any more for our
discussin' of et, nor yet cussin' for that matter."
"I see."
"Well, sir, we was driven at last to singin' a hymn to keep our
speerits up. Leastways, the boy an' me sang, an' Joe beat time.
Then says Joe, 'Look 'ere, I'm a-goin' to allee-couchee ef et lasts
like this.' 'Well,' I says, for I was gettin' desprit, 'have 'ee ever
tried to make poetry?' 'No,' says he, 'can't say I have.' 'Well,' I
says, 'I've oft'n wanted to. Let's ha' a shy. You go aft and think
of a verse, an' I'll go forra'd an' make another, an' then us'll see
which sounds best.' 'Done,' says he, an' off he goes.
"Well, I sits there for mor'n an hour, thinkin' hard, and terrable
work I found et. At last Joe shouts across, 'Hav'ee done?
Time's up'; and I told 'un I'd done purty middlin'. So us stepped
amidships, and spoke out what us had made."
Caleb made a long pause.
"I should like to hear the verses, if you remember them," said Mr.
Fogo.
"Should 'ee now?" Caleb asked with fine modesty. "Well, I don't
mind, on'y you mus'n' expect 'em to be like Maister Moggridge's.
Mine went thicky way." He recited very slowly, with a terrific
rolling of syllables:--
"See her glidin' dro' the water,
Far, far away!
Many a true heart's niver to be found.
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