The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 53, March, 1862: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
History
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 53, March, 1862: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
"So we got abroad, an' the men that was wi' me jes' began to knock right
an' left: 't was heartless to see an' hear it. They laved two old uns
an' a young whelp to me, as they runned by. The mother did cry like a
Christen, in a manner, an' the big tears 'ould run down, an' they 'ould
both be so brave for the poor whelp that 'ould cuddle up an' cry; an the
mother looked this way an' that way, wi' big, pooty, black eyes, to see
what was the manun of it, when they'd never doned any harm in God's
world that 'E made, an' would n', even ef you killed 'em: on'y the poor
mother baste ketched my gaff, that I was goun to strike wi', betwixt her
teeth, an' I could n' get it away. 'T was n' like fishun! (I was
weak-hearted like: I s'pose 't was wi' what was comun that I did n'
know.) Then comed a hail, all of a sudden, from the schooner; (we had n'
been gone more 'n a five minutes, ef't was so much,--no, not more 'n a
three;) but I was glad to hear it come then, however: an' so every man
ran, one afore t' other. There the schooner was, tearun through all, an'
we runnun for dear life. I failed among the slob,[G] and got out agen.
'T was another man pushun agen me doned it. I could n' 'elp myself from
goun in, an' when I got out I was astarn of all, an' there was the
schooner carryun on, right through to clear water! So, hold of a bight
o' line, or anything! an' they swung up in over bows an' sides! an'
swash! she struck the water, an' was out o' sight in a minute, an' the
snow drivun as ef't would bury her, an' a man laved behind on a pan of
ice, an' the great black say two fathom ahead, an' the storm-wind blowun
'im into it!"
[Footnote G: Broken ice, between large cakes, or against the
shore.]
The planter stopped speaking. We had all gone along so with the story,
that the stout seafarer, as he wrought the whole scene up about us,
seemed instinctively to lean back and brace his feet against the ground,
and clutch his net. The young woman looked up, this time; and the cold
snow-blast seemed to howl through that still summer's noon, and the
terrific ice-fields and hills to be crashing against the solid earth
that we sat upon, and all things round changed to the far-off stormy
ocean and boundless frozen wastes.
The planter began to speak again:--
"So I failed right down upon th' ice, sayun, 'Lard, help me! Lard, help
me!' an' crawlun away, wi' the snow in my face, (I was afeard, a'most,
to stand,) 'Lard, help me! Lard, help me!'
"'T was n' all hard ice, but many places lolly;[H] an once I goed right
down wi' my hand-wristès an' my armes in cold water, part-ways to the
bottom o' th' ocean; and a'most head-first into un, as I'd a-been in wi'
my legs afore: but, thanks be to God! 'E helped me out of un, but colder
an' wetter agen.
[Footnote H: Snow in water, not yet frozen, but looking like
the white ice.]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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