feel as ef I was descendin into a depression as
deep as yourn. I don't remember when I felt so depressed, cept last
May--time I had to go off in the Antelope with taters, arter I thought
I'd done with seafarin for the rest of my life. But that thar vessel
war wonderously resussutated, an the speouse of my buzzum druv me away
to traverse the sea. An I had to tar myself away from the clingin
gerasp of my weepin infant,--the tender bud an bulossum of an old man's
life--tar myself away, an feel myself a outcast. Over me hovered
contennooly the image of the pinin infant, an my heart quivered with
responsive sympathy. An I yearned--an I pined--an I groaned--an I felt
that life would be intoll'ble till I got back to the babby. An so it
was that I passed away, an had scace the heart to acknowledge your
youthful cheers. Wal, time rolled on, an what's the result? Here I
air. Do I pine now? Do I peek? Not a pine! Not a peek! As tender a
heart as ever bet still beats in this aged frame; but I am no longer a
purray to sich tender reminiscinsuz of the babby as onst used to
consume my vitals."

Thus it was that the venerable captain talked with the boys, and it was
thus that he sought, by every possible means, to cheer them up. In this
way the day passed on, and after five or six hours they began to look
for a turn of tide. During this time the schooner had been beating;
and as the fog was as thick as ever, it was impossible for the boys to
tell where they were. Indeed, it did not seem as though they had been
making any progress.

"We'll have to anchor soon," said the captain, closing his eyes and
turning his face meditatively to the quarter whence the wind came.

"Anchor?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Wal, you see it'll soon be dead low tide, an we can't go on any
further when it turns. We'll have wind an tide both agin us."

"How far have we come now?"

"Wal, we've come a pooty considerable of a lick now--mind I tell you.
'Tain't, of course, as good as ef the wind had ben favorable, but arter
all, that thar tide was a pooty considerable of a tide, now."

"How long will you anchor?"

"Why, till the next tarn of tide,--course."

"When will that be?"

"Wal, somewhar about eleven o'clock."

"Eleven o'clock?"

"Yes."

"Why, that's almost midnight."

"Course it is."

"Wouldn't it be better to cruise off in the bay? It seems to me
anything is better than keeping still."

"No, young sir; it seems to me th