MOTHER-IN-LAW TO THE CREW.

ONE OF THE OLD SAILOR'S YARNS.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

It was a beautiful summer morning. There was a light wind from the southwest, which just tempered to a degree of endurance the blazing heat of the full-orbed sun. A few wisps of feathery white lay slantwise across the broad field of deep-toned blue sky, promising a change of weather within a day's time. The sea was a vast undulating mirror of blue, as if all the sapphires in the world and in all the other worlds had been melted and poured into earth's majestic basin. From the rounded slopes of the broad low swells the rays of the sun danced in a million flashes of dazzling silver. The swells themselves ran in slow, sinuous folds to the inner bar, where they reared themselves in curving walls of translucent green shot with bars of snow, and then with the burst of far-off thunder fell forward into spurting, writhing acres of yeasty foam. Softness, warmth, and languorous sparkle lay over the sea.

Far away upon the uncertain horizon loomed the black hull of an ocean liner, cleaving her way across the polished path at twenty knots an hour, to make a new record, homeward bound. The tense cordage of her rigging, the strained squareness of her tapering yards, the horizontal backward rush of the torrents of smoke from her yawning funnels gave her the appearance of a true greyhound, with every nerve and muscle strained in the effort at speed. Nearer the land three schooners, two loaded to their scuppers, and one flying light, so that she seemed to sail on her keel, were making a long leg to the southward, close-hauled on the starboard tack. Further in yet a score of tiny sea skiffs rose and fell on the bosom of the deep, and now and then the glitter of sunlight on the scales of a captured fish could be seen.

Henry Hovey and his little brother George—who was not so little as he used to be—were walking along the ocean road. Often and often they had gone down to the old wooden pier, and sighed much because it no longer held their interesting friend, the Old Sailor. They had met other sailors, but none of them could tell tales of the sea; and, worse than that, none of them knew anything about the wonderful places the Old Sailor had seen. So Henry and George contented themselves with telling the old tales over, and speculating on the causes of the remarkable events related therein. On this beautiful summer day they unconsciously wandered down to the pier, and to their surprise there was a man sitting on the end of it. He looked so much like their old friend that they both stopped short and gasped. Then they shook their heads sadly and walked slowly out on the pier. As they drew near the man they saw that his shoulders were shaking with laughter. George gripped Henry's arm and said, "Is it a dream?"

"I don't know," answered Henry, in a whisper. "I'm afraid—"

"W'ich the same it are not!" cried a voice they well knew; and the next instant there was the Old Sailor himself, half laughing and half crying, dancing on one foot and holding each of the breathless boys by a hand. "It are not no dream," continued the Old Sailor; "'cos w'y, dreams goes by contraries, an' this are the werry identical sailor wot it used to be, an' not no contrary wotsomever."

"Oh! when did you come?" cried George.

"Jes now."

"What?"

"Jes now. I jes come ashore. I were a-sittin' on this 'ere werry identical pier a-lookin' fur my trunk."

The two boys gazed at their old friend in silent wonder, for they were sure that behind that trunk there lay some mystery.

"Where is it?" asked Henry at length.

"Down there," answered the Old Sailor, pointing at the water. "Under hatches, stove in an' sunk. I wouldn't 'a' parted with that trunk fur a good hogshead o' baccy. 'Cos w'y; I got that there trunk in Noo Yawk the day I shipped, an' I had her loaded right to her hatches with things to bring home to ye. Howsumever, it were drownin' or losin' 'em, an' so me an' the trunk got ashore—leastways I did; an' that's wot."

With these words the Old Sailor once more sat down on the end of the pier, and the boys sat beside him. He sent one of his long searching glances around the horizon, indulged in one of his peculiar silent laughs, and then suddenly said,

"S'pose I was to go fur to ask ye wot kind o' wessel are that out yonder?"

"It's an ocean liner," answered Henry.

"An' s'posin' I was to say wot are them three yonder?"

"Schooners," said George, "under all plain sail, close-hauled on the starboard tack."

"My son," said the Old Sailor, solemnly, "you are growin' werry salt. An' s'posin' I were to ask ye wot are that high-sided one loaded with?"

"Nothin'," said Henry. "She's flying light."

"Werry good too. An' may I be run down an' sunk by a bar'l o' your mother's hot biscuit ef this here warn't the werry identical way wot it happened. I shipped in St. Thomas as second mate onto the four-masted schooner Raw Tomatters. She were bound fur Noo Yawk with an assorted cargo o' cigarettes, pickled pigs' feet, mares' nests, and ice-cream."

"Mares' nests!" exclaimed Henry.

"Ice-cream!" cried George.

"Them's it! The mares' nests is built in the mountains by the wild mares, an' is imported to this country for political purposes. The ice-cream made in St. Thomas are werry bad, werry bad indeed; but it won't melt in this here climate 'cos it are so hot where it are made, an' so it are imported here in bricks an' sold as ice-cream candy, w'ich the same you may have eat, but don't do so no more. Howsumever that 'ain't got nothin' to do with this 'ere yarn wot I'm a-tellin' ye. The Raw Tomatters are a werry big schooner, an' she got under way with a crew o' twenty men, all told, includin' me, wot were the second mate, an' the Cap'n's mother, w'ich the same she were the cause o' the whole bilin'. The Cap'n's name were Janders Blue, an' he were a smallish man with a turned-up nose, one glass eye, an' a wooden arm, w'ich the same he got in the whalin' trade. His mother's name were Mehitabel Blue, an' she stood six feet three, an' could lift a barrel o' salt horse. So bein', it putty soon come to be knowed that she were not only the Cap'n's mother, but a mother-in-law to the hull crew. The trouble with her were that she weren't brought up among seafarin' pussons, but in a werry respectable country town where there were more churches than stores. She'd went down to St. Thomas on a steamer fur her health, she said, an' were now goin' fur to make the v'yidge back with her good son. I didn't see wot she wanted o' any more health than she had; but I didn't say nothin', her bein' the Cap'n's mother an' me the second mate, w'ich the same 'ain't got much to say.

"Waal, the squalls commenced fur to make up jes as soon as ever we started to git the anchor. The old lady, wearin' a wide-brimmed straw hat with a long red feather into 't, an' holdin' a white umbreller over her head, stood aft alongside o' her son. Sez he, 'H'ist the outer jib.' Sez I, 'Lively there, you swabs.' With that the old woman she shet the umbreller down with a snap, jumped forrad in about four hops, an' sez she ter me, sez she,

"'Wot kind o' langwidge are that ter use in the presence of a lady?'

"'Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am,' sez I to she, sez I, 'I weren't aware as how it were onperlite,' sez I, jes like that.

"'Don't you dast to call no man no sich names ag'in w'ile I'm on this 'ere boat,' sez she; 'ef ye do, I'll git my son ter discharge ye right off.'

"Then she h'isted the umbreller ag'in an' went aft. The men looked at me an' I looked at them, an' we didn't none on us say nothin'; 'cos why, there weren't nothin' to say. But blow me fur pickles ef 'twere more'n five minutes afore she bruk out in a noo place. Bill Doosenbury, the fust mate, he sings out fur some un to set the torps'ls.

"'Lay aloft an' loose torps'ls,' sez he. 'Lively now, you sea-cooks!'

"May I never cross the blessed hequator ag'in ef the old woman didn't dance right up to Bill, an' fetch him a swat over the head with the umbreller.

"'I'll not stand it,' sez she to he, sez she. 'I'll not listen to no sich talk.'

"With that the Cap'n comes a-runnin' up to her, an' sez he, 'Mother, wot's wrong?'

"'Wot d'ye mean, Janders Blue,' sez she to he, sez she, 'by allowin' o' sich permiskis langwidge on your boat?'

"'W'y, mother,' sez he, 'that are reg'lar sea langwidge.'

"'Then it are got to be changed,' sez she to he, sez she, jes like that, him bein' Cap'n of the schooner, an' she bein' his mother with a white umbreller. She turned around to go aft ag'in, an' stopped like she were hit herself. 'Janders Blue,' sez she, 'look at this here rope!'

"'Wot's the matter with 't, mother?'

"'It are all covered with tar!'

"'That's allers the way with 'em on ships,' sez he.

"'Nonsense!' sez she. 'I ain't a-goin' to stand it. You're all in a plot to make this 'ere v'yidge o' mine a failure. I won't have it! Janders Blue, you set them lazy sailors to work right off with hot water 'n' soap a-scrubbin' that stuff off. Ugh! Tar! Ugh!'

"I hope I may turn into a bloomin' Sally Growler ef the Cap'n didn't do jes wot she told him. Ye never in the hull course o' your life see sich a ridikalous sight as sailor-men a-scrubbin' the tar off their own riggin'. An' that weren't the wust o' 't. Byme-by, o' course, it come on night, and the side-lights were set. Now it so happened that we had a strong breeze on the starboard beam that night, an' we was putty well hove over. Mrs. Blue she come on deck jes after the lights was sot, an' she vowed as how she were tired o' the starn part o' the wessel, an' were a-goin' to walk up an' down forrad. She came along to the fok's'le deck an' got down on the lee side to walk up an' down. Jes as soon as she done that she seed the red light in the port riggin'. She let out a yawp as almost killed the wind, and called fur Bill Doosenbury. He come a-runnin' half scart to death, fur fear she'd got hurt. But she sez to him, sez she:

"'Take that nasty red light down. It hurts my eyes.'

"'But, ma'am,' sez Bill, 'that's our side light.'

"'Waal,' sez she, 'put it on t'other side, and put the green one over here. I don't mind green.'

"'Couldn't you walk on t'other side?' sez Bill.

"'No, I couldn't,' sez she; 'you know it's too windy up there. You change them lights!'

"Bill tried to tell her why it couldn't be did, but she wouldn't listen to him. She hollered fur the Cap'n, an' he come forrad, an' findin' out wot were the matter, offered to put out both lights, blow me fur a herrin' ef he didn't.

"'Wot!' sez she, 'an' leave me in the dark to fall down an' break my neck?'

"An' with that she set up a weepin' an' wailin' that her son didn't love her, till I'm blowed ef the old man didn't go an' shift the lights to suit her. An' then we had to put on double lookouts fur fear we'd run into somethin'. O' course soon's she went below we shifted 'em back. In the mid-watch 't come on to blow putty fresh, and I, bein' on watch, sung out a few orders about reefin', an' the watch jumped to work. Up come the old woman in a long night-gown an' a red flannel night-cap, two steps at a time.

"'Wot d'ye mean,' she yells, 'a-raisin' such a racket up here at this time o' night? It's time all decent people was in bed. Shame on ye! Shame on ye! Roisterin' an' carousin' out here this way! Go to bed, ye miserable sinners, go to bed!'

"I tried to explain to her as how the schooner'd got to be worked through the night.

"'Nonsense!' sez she to me, sez she; 'my son Janders'd never make no man work all night. He'd stop the ship an' have a night watchman to mind her till mornin'. This are some o' your doin'. You're the wust o' the hull lot. Th' idee of your bein' out this time o' night. You're old nuff to know better!'

"By that time the Cap'n were on deck, an' somehow he coaxed her to go below an' stay there. But the werry next mornin' she were at 't ag'in. We started in to wash down decks, an' up she come without her hat on an' her hair all up in yaller curl-papers. She tuk one look along the deck, an' then she bruk out:

"'Waal, of all the oncivilized ways o' cleanin' a floor I must say I 'ain't never seed nothin like that. Squirtin' onto 't with a hose! Janders! Janders! Come out here!'

"The Cap'n come on deck lookin' putty tired, an' she sez to he, sez she:

"'I won't stand it—I won't! Make them lazy men git soap an' water an' scrubbin'-brushes, an' git right down on their knees an' scrub the floor honest. Th' idee o' squirtin' onto 't!'

"An' by the great hook block we had to do 't. Right down onto our knees, es ef we wus so many old women hired out fur to do cookin', washin', an' ironin! Waal, ye may keel-haul me an' copper-bottom me on top o' my head with yaller paper ef I didn't begin fur to git putty mad. I made up my mind that the next thing o' that sort wot the old girl called out fur us to do were not a-goin' fur to be did. Waal, it weren't so werry long afore the trouble bruk loose. We had a little more wind than we wanted day afore yistiddy, an' afore we could git the torps'ls clewed down there were a hit of a split in one ov 'em. Yistiddy I got my sail needle an' palm an' were a-startin' to go up to mend the sail. The old woman stopped me an' asked me wot I were a-goin' to do. She looked at me an' at the sail needle an' the palm, an' then she let go:

"'I 'ain't never seed sich an old heathen in the hull course o' my life,' sez she. 'The idee o' climbin' up there an' riskin' your life w'en you could have the sail brung down! An' then to try to sew it with sich things as them! I won't stand it, that are all I got to say.'

"I told her that were the way them things was allers did at sea, an' she vowed it were time sich nonsense were changed. Then she called fur her son, an' sez she to he:

"This 'ere old sailor are a-doin' his best to make me mis'able aboard this 'ere ship. I won't stand it! You make him bring that sail down here and sew it up proper.'

"An' the Cap'n he sez to me, sez he, that I'd better do it her way, jes like that, him bein' Cap'n an' me second mate. I got mad an' slammed the palm down on deck, an' said I'd be swabbed afore I'd do 't.

"'Oh—h!' screeched the old woman, 'to think as how I'd be talked to like that in my son's own boat! I won't stand it! Janders Blue, you put that old man off this vessel at oncet, or I'll jump off myself an' wade ashore!'

"'But it are too deep fur wadin',' sez the Cap'n.

"'Then give him a boat.'

"'I can't spare my men.'

"'Let him row it hisself.'

"'He can't do that all alone.'

"'Oh, to think that my own son'd turn ag'in me, an' all fur a measly, chicken-faced, turkey-footed old sinner that wants to sew with a skewer!'

"An' she beginned fur to squeal so that the Cap'n, sez he to me, sez he, 'You git ashore somehow, quick.' Waal, my sons, we wuz about eight miles off yonder, an' I couldn't swim so far. But down in the fok's'le I had my trunk wot I'd carried off to bring home things in. So I went below an' emptied all the things out 'ceptin' a Chinese umbreller an' a Indian shawl. I brung the trunk on deck, an' sez I to the Cap'n, 'You rig a tackle an' lower me an' my trunk into the sea,' sez I, 'an' I'll git ashore right here. I've got friends on that there coast.' So he lowered us—me an' the trunk—an' the wind bein' fair, I set sail with the Chinese umbrella fur a sail. The old woman she stood on deck a-shakin' her umbreller at me, an' yellin' loud,

"'Don't ye dast to come back to this 'ere boat, ye old reprobate!'

"'Not as long as there are any land to stay on,' sez I to she, sez I.

"'I won't stand it!' sez she.

"'Then go to bed!' sez I.

"An' by that time the schooner were so fur away I couldn't tell wot she sez. It tuk me all night to git in half a mile o' the beach, an' then the wind changed an' I had to paddle. The surf smashed my trunk ag'in the pier; I lost my umbreller an' my shawl; but here I are, an' here I stays. An' the previous part o' my percedins I'll tell ye some other day, but jes now I'd like to see your mother an' ask her ef she's forgot how I like her coffee."