To cut a lengthening story short, She never saved it. Made the sport Of evil spirits and baffling wind, She was always before or just behind, One day too soon or one day too late, And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. She had two Eighths, as she idly lay, Two Tenths, but never a NINTH of May; And there she rides through two hundred years Of dreary penance and anxious fears; Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, Captain and crew are still preserved. By a computation that still holds good, Made by the Holy Brotherhood, The San Gregorio will cross that line In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine: Just three hundred years to a day From the time she lost the ninth of May. And the folk in Acapulco town, Over the waters looking down, Will see in the glow of the setting sun The sails of the missing galleon, And the royal standard of Philip Rey, The gleaming mast and glistening spar, As she nears the surf of the outer bar. A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck, An odor of spice along the shore, A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck,-- And the yearly galleon sails no more In or out of the olden bay; For the blessed patron has found his day. ------- Such is the legend. Hear this truth: Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint: Each lost day has its patron saint! * See notes at end. III. IN DIALECT "JIM" Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild? Well,--no offense: Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar: That's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir! YOU Ain't of that crew,-- Blest if you are! Money? Not much: That ain't my kind; I ain't no such. Rum? I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim,-- Did you know him? Jes' 'bout your size; Same kind of eyes;-- Well, that is strange: Why, it's two year Since he came here, Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us: Eh? The h--- you say! Dead? That little cuss? What makes you star', You over thar? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop But you must r'ar? It wouldn't take D----d much to break You and your bar. Dead! Poor--little--Jim! Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,-- No-account men: Then to take HIM! Well, thar-- Good-by-- No more, sir--I-- Eh? What's that you say? Why, dern it!--sho!-- No? Yes! By Joe! Sold!