But yer vessel ain't sailin' right;
For our engine should be burnin' wood
And our rattlelines should be tight."

But when I spoke to the Admiral
He wasn't inclined to scold,
Though me words, addressed to the Admiral,
Was intimate-like and bold,
(But he was up on deck at the time
And I was down in the hold).

FOOTNOTES:

[8] From "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright,
1904, by Dodd, Mead & Co.

FATE

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK

Once I planted some potatoes
In my garden fair and bright;
Unelated
Long I waited,
And no sprout appeared in sight.

But my "peachblows" in the cellar,
On the cold and grimy flag,
All serenely
Sprouted greenly
In an ancient paper bag.

THE LIFE ELIXIR OF MARTHY

BY ELIZABETH HYER NEFF

"An-ndrew! An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"Andrew, what be you doin' out there? You've ben sayin' 'Yes, Marthy,'
for the last ten minutes."

The patient, middle-aged face of Andrew appeared in the doorway, its
high, white forehead in sharp contrast with the deeply tanned features
below it.

"I've jest ben takin' your buryin' clothes off the line an' foldin' 'em
up. It is such a good day to air 'em for fall--and, then,--I jest hate
to tell you!--the moths has got into the skirt of your shroud. I sunned
it good, but the holes is there yet."

"Moths!" screamed the thin voice, sharpened by much calling to people in
distant rooms. "Then they've got all over the house, I presume to say,
if they've got into that. Why don't you keep it in the cedar chist?"

"Because it's full of your laid-by clothes now, and I keep my black suit
that you had me git for the funeral in there, too. There ain't room. You
told me allus to keep your buryin' clothes in a box in the spare room
closet, so's they'd be handy to git if they was wanted in the night. You
told me that four or five years ago, Marthy."

"So I did. And I presume to say that my good three-ply carpet that
mother gave me when we was married is jest reddled with moths--if
they're in that closet. If it wasn't for keepin' that spare room ready
for the cousins in Maine when they come to the buryin', I'd have you
take up that carpet and beat it good and store it in the garret. My, oh,
my, what worries a body has when they can't git around to do for
themselves! Now it's moths, right on top of Mr. Oldshaw's death after
he'd got my discourse all pr