seem but shadows.

I see whole rows of these young faces in an old school-house, far from
here, close by the sea,--can see the little girls running in, when the
schoolma'am knocked, and settling down in their forms, panting for
breath.

One of these the boys called my girl. I liked her, because she had curls
and two rows of cunning teeth, and because she never laughed when the
boys called me "Spunky Joe." For I was wilful, and of a hasty temper.
Her name was Margaret. My father took me a long voyage with him, and
while I was gone she moved down East. I never saw her afterwards. If
living, it must have been a score of years since she bought her first
glasses.

No doubt I should have been of a pleasanter disposition, had I not been
the only boy and the youngest child. I was made too much of. Aunt Chloe,
who was aunt to the neighborhood, and did its washing, said I was
"humored to death."

We had a great family of girls, but Mary was the one I loved best. She
was a saint. Her face made you think of "Peace on earth, and good-will
to men." Aunt Chloe used to say that "Mary Bond was pretty to look at,
and facultied; pity she hadn't the 'one thing needful.'" For Mary was
not a professor.

I went pretty steadily to school until about sixteen. At that time I had
a misunderstanding with father. I got the idea that he looked upon me as
an incumbrance, and declared I would go to sea.

Mother and the girls were full of trouble, but I wasn't used to being
crossed, and to sea I went. I knew afterwards that father had set his
heart upon my getting learning.

He said going to sea was a dog's life. But I liked it, and followed it
up. I think it was in my twentieth year that I shipped on board the
Eliza Ann, Captain. Saunders, bound from Boston to Calcutta. This was my
first long voyage as a sailor. Among the crew was one they called Jamie,
as smart as a steel-trap, and handsome as a picture. He was not our
countryman. I think he was part Scotch. The passengers were always
noticing him. One day, when he stood leaning against the foremast, with
his black hair blowing out in the wind, a young man with a portfolio got
me to keep him there, still, for a while: he was an artist, and wanted
to make a drawing of him. The sailors all liked him because he was so
clever, and so lively, and knew so many songs, and could hop about the
rigging, light as a bird. Only a few knew him. They said he had no home
but the sea.

He afterwards told m