ord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters,
When the rollers are a-poundin' on the shore,
When the mariner's a-thinkin' of his wife and sons and daughters,
And the little home he'll, maybe, see no more;
When the bars are white and yeasty and the shoals are all a-frothin',
When the wild no'theaster's cuttin' like a knife;
Through the seethin' roar and screech he's patrollin' on the beach,--
The Gov'ment's hired man fer savin' life.

He's strugglin' with the gusts that strike and bruise him like a hammer,
He's fightin' sand that stings like swarmin' bees,
He's list'nin' through the whirlwind and the thunder and the clamor--
A-list'nin' fer the signal from the seas;
He's breakin' ribs and muscles launchin' life-boats in the surges,
He's drippin' wet and chilled in every bone,
He's bringin' men from death back ter flesh and blood and breath,
And he never stops ter think about his own;

He's a-pullin' at an oar that is freezin' to his fingers,
He's a-clingin' in the riggin' of a wreck,
He knows destruction's nearer every minute that he lingers,
But it do'n't appear ter worry him a speck:
He's draggin' draggled corpses from the clutches of the combers--
The kind of job a common chap would shirk--
But he takes 'em from the wave and he fits 'em fer the grave,
And he thinks it's all included in his work.

He is rigger, rower, swimmer, sailor, doctor, undertaker,
And he's good at every one of 'em the same:
And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand and the breaker,
And a thousand wives and mothers bless his name.
He's an angel dressed in oilskins, he's a saint in a "sou'wester",
He's as plucky as they make, or ever can;
He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head,
And he's jest the U.S. Gov'ment's hired man.

* * * * *

"THE EVENIN' HYMN"

When the hot summer daylight is dyin',
And the mist through the valley has rolled,
And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard
Are purple with trimmings of gold,--
Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky,
The crickets chirp out from each nook,
And the frogs with their voices so husky
Jine in from the marsh and the brook.

The chorus grows louder and deeper,
An owl sends a hoot from the hill,
The leaves on the elm-trees are rustling
A whippoorwill calls by the mill.
Where swamp honeysuckles are bloomin'
The breeze scatters sweets on the night,
Like incense the evenin' perfu