The men’s clothing was ripped off, and for several hours the crews worked over them, skilfully practicing the most approved methods for restoring the apparently drowned,—methods by which scores of people seemingly dead have been resuscitated, and in which all persons connected with the United States Life-Saving Service are required to be proficient. Every means approved by science and the wide experience of the operators was tried, but all to no purpose. The vital spark was extinguished; the captain of the brig and the Spanish sailor had drawn their last breath. Next morning the sky was clear, the snow had ceased, the wind shifted into the north-west, and it was stinging cold. The sea had been busy with its work of destruction during the hours of darkness, and the staunch brig of yesterday was strewn piece-meal along the beach. Stout oak beams and iron girders were splintered, twisted, or rent asunder, while the thick coat of ice with which they were covered, caused them to assume strangely fantastic shapes. The two masts had come ashore; mattresses, provisions of all sorts, boxes, rigging, the cabin floor, and countless casks of molasses, lay scattered upon the beach for leagues in both directions. Many vessels ended their careers on that terrible night, and many lives were lost, from the Delaware Capes to the shores of Nova Scotia. But scores were saved and alive next morning, who, but for the heroic exertions of the government life-savers, would have perished miserably. These men did only their duty, but in many cases that duty compelled them to take their lives in their hands, and they did it without shrinking. People all over the country read in the papers that morning of wrecks by the dozen; of deaths innumerable from freezing, drowning, and exposure; of terrible hardships endured for many hours by unfortunates whom human aid was powerless to save; and they said, “What an awful night it was!” Then they turned to their usual occupations, and the subject was forgotten. How should those who spent the night in a warm bed, far from the sound of the waves, have any real conception of the fearful struggles with death represented by those inanimate lines? THANKSGIVING ON THE DICKY BIRD. [Picture: Thanksgiving on the Dicky Bird] Many years ago I was mate of the little schooner _Dicky Bird_. She traded mostly between the West Indies and Gulf ports, once in a while getting a charter for some point in Central America. On this particular voyage, she was bound across the Gulf from Pensacola to Vera Cruz.