The Fisherman stroked the fur Of the downy white seal-skin, And he said, “Shall I give it her?— But then she would get in, And hurry away to the sea, And not come back to me, And I should be sorry all my life, I want her so for my little wife.” The Fisherman thought for a minute, Then he carried the seal-skin to A secret hole in the thatch, Where he hid it cleverly, so That a sharp-sighted person might go, In front of the hole and not catch A glimpse of the seal-skin within it. After this he lifted the latch Of his door once more, But the night was darker, for The moon was swimming under a cloud, So the Fisherman couldn’t see The little sea-woman plainly, Seeing a fleck of white foam only, That was sobbing aloud As before. “Little sea-woman,” said the Fisherman, “Will you come home to me, Will you help me to work, and help me to save, Care for my house and me, And the little children that we shall have?” “Yes, Fisherman,” said she. So the Fisherman had his way, And seven years of life Pass’d by him like one happy day; But, as for his sea-wife, She sorrowed for the sea alway And loved not her land life. Morning and evening, and all day She would say To herself—“The sea! the sea!” And at night, when dreaming, She stretch’d her arms about her, seeming To seek little Willie, It was the sea She would have clasp’d, not he— The great sea’s purple water, Dearer to her than little son or daughter. Yet she was kind To her children three, Harry, fair Alice, and baby Willie; And set her mind To keep things orderly. “Only,” thought she, “If I _could_ but find That little seal-skin I lost one day.” She didn’t know That her husband had it hidden away; Nor he That she long’d for it so. Until One evening as he climb’d the hill, The Fisherman found her amongst the whin, Sobbing, saying, “My little seal-skin— Who has stolen my skin from me? How shall I find it, and get in, And hurry away to the sea?” “Then she shall have her will,” Said he.