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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
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.
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
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
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.