than the Trades, doesn't it? Wherever did
you get such notions?"

I showed her a volume, one of Captain Blaise's, an anthology of the
Elizabethan and Restoration poets. "I was trying to write like one of
'em," I explained. "And I thought it was pretty good."

"I don't--a poor girl believing that Heaven made her kind for the high
people's pleasure. No, I don't like that. And 'hair as silk as tasselled
corn!' Do you like tasselled corn hair?"

"Why, no--in a man. But my own being black--"

"Hush! Black's best. No, you're not intended for that kind of writing."

"But here--listen:

"'True love can neither hate nor scorn,
And ne'er will true love pass away.'

"Don't you like that?"

"Something like it's been said so often. Why don't you put it in your
own words?" She took up another sheet. "What's this about?"

"That's about a day and night at sea--a fine day in the Trades, such a
day as to-day--and last night."

"It _was_ a beautiful moon last night, wasn't it?" And she read to
herself. Coming to the last stanza, she read aloud, unconsciously I
think:

"The stars gleamed out of a purple light,
The moon trembled wide on the sea;
The Western Ocean smiled that night--
Sweetheart, 'twas a dream of thee!"

She paused. "But the ocean doesn't smile." "But it does. Smiles and
frowns, and roars and coos, and coaxes and threatens, and strikes and
caresses, and leaps and rolls--and so many other things. I've seen it.
And Captain Blaise will tell you the same."

She looked strangely at me. In the deep sea I had seen, at times, that
deep dark blue of her eyes--ultramarine, they call it; but hers softer.
I almost told her so, but I was afraid.

She looked away and repeated softly:

"'The Western Ocean smiled that night--Sweetheart,
'twas a dream of thee!'"

It's pretty, but more like what men who cruise for pleasure would write.
You're a sailor--have taken a sailor's chances. Why don't you write like
a sailor? It is a sad sea, a terrible sea, despite all your beautiful
blue Trades. Why don't you write of the tragic sea?"

"I knew that some time you would say something like that. I've seen it
in your eyes before."

"You have?"

"Why, many times. And so, here." And from between the pages of Captain
Blaise's book of verse I drew another sheet. At that time I would have
been ashamed to let anybody else see these things, but I did not mind
her. "Here," I said, "is one I felt. One night in the Caribb