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And Ung looked down at his deerskins - their

broad shell-tasselled bandsAnd Ung drew downward his mitten and looked

at his naked hands; And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard

his father, behind: “Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe

is blind!”

Straight on that glittering ice-field, by the caves of

the lost Dordogne, Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on

boneEven to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled

and sung, Blessing his tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the

Story of Ung!


“The three-volume novel is extinct."

FULL thirty foot she towered from waterline to

rail. It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten

sail; But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and

bestThe only certain packet for the Islands of the


Fair held our breeze behind us—'twas warm with

lovers' prayers: We'd stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing

heirs; They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked

Nurse confessed, And they worked the old three-decker to the

Islands of the Blest.

Carambas and serapés we waved to every wind, We smoked good Corpo Bacco when our sweet

hearts proved unkind; With maids of matchless beauty and parentage

unguessed We also took our manners to the Islands of the


We asked no social questions—we pumped no

hidden shameWe never talked obstetrics when the little stranger

came: We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in

Hell. We weren't exactly Yussufs, but-Zuleika didn't


No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we

neared, The villain got his flogging at the gangway, and

we cheered. 'Twas fiddles in the foc'sle—'twas garlands on the

mast, For every one got married, and I went ashore at


I left 'em all in couples akissing on the decks.
I left the lovers loving and the parents signing

checks. In endless English comfort by county-folk ca

ressed, I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the


That route is barred to steamers: you'll never lift

again Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps

of Spain. They're just beyond the skyline, howe'er so far you

cruise In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of

bucking screws.

Swing round your aching search-light-'twill show

no haven's peace! Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray

bearded seas! Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep's

unrestBut you aren't a knot the nearer to the Islands

of the Blest.

And when you're threshing, crippled, with broken

bridge and rail, On a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head

to gale, Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taff

rail dressed, You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of

the Blest.

You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver

spread; You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her

leaping figure-head; While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns

shine Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles

round a shrine.

Hull down—hull down and under-she dwindles

to a speck, With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her

deck. All's well—all's well aboard her-she's dropped

you far behind, With a scent of old-world roses through the fog

that ties you blind.

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