What makes me learned in cutters and yawls, And time-allowance--which others must tot--, And awfully nervous in sudden squalls? My Yot! What makes me sprawl on the deck all day, And at night play "Nap" till I lose a lot, And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way? My Yot! What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale, (Though rather than own it I'd just be shot) When the _Fay_ in the wave-crests dips her sail? My Yot! What makes me "patter" to skipper and crew In a kibosh style that a child might spot, And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue? My Yot! What makes me snooze in a narrow, close bunk, Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot, And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk? My Yot! What makes me gammon my chummiest friends To "try the fun"--which I know's all rot-- And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends? My Yot! What makes me, in short, an egregious ass, A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass? My Yot! * * * * * AT WHITBY.--_Visitor_ (_to Ancient Mariner, who has been relating his experiences to crowd of admirers_). "Then do you mean to tell us that you actually reached the North Pole?" _Ancient Mariner._ "No, sir; that would be a perwersion of the truth. But I seed it a-stickin' up among the ice just as plain as you can this spar, which I plants in the sand. It makes me thirsty to think of that marvellous sight, we being as it were parched wi' cold." [_A. M.'s distress promptly relieved by audience._ * * * * * [Illustration: THE DANGERS OF HENLEY _Voice from the bridge above._ "Oh, lor, Sarah, I've bin and dropped the strawberries and cream!"] * * * * * [Illustration: _His Fair Companion_ (_drowsily_). "I think a Canadian is the best river craft, after all, as it's less like _work_ than the others!"] * * * * * THE RULE OF THE RIVER (_As Deduced from a late Collision_) The rule of the river's a mystery quite, Other craft when you're steering among, If you starboard your helm, you ain't sure you are right, If you port, you may prove to be wrong. * * * * * "THE USUAL CHANNEL" To what snug refuge do I fly When glass is low, and billows high, And goodness knows what fate is nigh?-- My Cabin! Who soothes me when in sickness' grip, Brings a consolatory "nip," And earns my blessing, and his tip?-- The Steward! When persons blessed with fancy rich Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch. What say--"The case is hardly sich"?-- My Senses!