When I was a boy, New Bedford was not, as it is now, a great manufacturing city, but the best known and largest whaling port in the world. The wharves were then busy places; there vessels were “fitted”, as they used to say, and sent out on their long voyages; other vessels returned and discharged their cargoes. Great casks of oil were arranged in rows on the wharves; those that were sold were carted off on curious old trucks called gears, and those that were to await a better market were given a thick covering of seaweed. Everybody talked ships and oil. One would hear people say, “The _Janet_ is reported in the Indian Ocean, clean,” that is, had taken no oil; “The _Adeline_ is heard from in the Pacific, having made a ‘good cut’,” that is, had taken a lot of oil; “There is news from the _Marcella_ from the other side of land, having done well.” “The other side of land” meant the other side of the world, as Australia and New Zealand, in the waters round which many whalers used to cruise. My father, when a young man, went whaling for a single voyage which lasted for more than three years. He was a sailor, or, to use the regular phrase, a foremast hand, and at the end of two years he became a boat-steerer or harpooner. When I was a little boy he used to take me on his knee and tell me stories about the life of the whalemen,—of chasing whales and harpooning them; of angry whales smashing boats and chewing them to bits; of towing whales to the ship and cutting them in and trying them out; of losing the ship and remaining all night in the open boats; of encountering great storms and riding them out in safety; of meeting after many months another New Bedford vessel, and getting the latest news from home, and of visiting in the Pacific Ocean islands inhabited by savages. At an early age I made up my mind to go to sea. On Saturday afternoons I used to roam about the wharves and sometimes ventured into the ships, only to be ordered out. But one day a man, called a shipkeeper, was very kind to me. The shipkeeper was the man who had charge of the wharf and the ships moored to it. He was a kind of general manager. They were taking out the cargo from a vessel. “Haven’t I seen you around here before?” he asked. “Oh, yes, many times. I’ve been down here on the wharves nearly every Saturday afternoon for several years.” “How old are you?” “Twelve.” “What is your name?” “Homer Bleechly.” “I suppose you would like to go to sea—wouldn’t you?” “Indeed, I would.” “As cabin boy?” “Yes.” Then he said thoughtfully, “Not yet, boy, not yet. It’s a hard life, so you’d better wait awhile.” “That was what my father said.” The shipkeeper continued, “You go home and get a basket and a pail, and I’ll take you up into the loft and give you something that will make you happy.”