It was against the law, in such case made and provided, Of the United States, but by the good will of the pilots That we would some of us climb to the pilot-house after our breakfast For a morning smoke, and find ourselves seats on the benching Under the windows, or in the worn-smooth arm-chairs. The pilot, Which one it was did not matter, would tilt his head round and say, "All right!" When he had seen who we were, and begin, or go on as from stopping In the midst of talk that was leading up to a story, Just before we came in, and the story, begun or beginning, Always began or ended with some one, or something or other, Having to do with the river. If one left the wheel to the other, Going off watch, he would say to his partner standing behind him With his hands stretched out for the spokes that were not given up yet, "Captain, you can tell them the thing I was going to tell them Better than I could, I reckon," and then the other would answer, "Well, I don't know as I feel so sure of that, captain," and having Recognized each other so by that courtesy title of captain Never officially failed of without offense among pilots, One would subside into Jim and into Jerry the other. It was on these terms, at least, Captain Dunn relieved Captain Davis When we had settled ourselves one day to listen in comfort, After some psychological subtleties we had indulged in at breakfast Touching that weird experience every one knows when the senses Juggle the points of the compass out of true orientation, Changing the North to the South, and the East to the West. "Why, Jerry, what was it You was going to tell them?" "Oh, never _you_ mind what it _was_, Jim. _You_ tell them something else," and so Captain Davis submitted, While Captain Dunn, with a laugh, got away beyond reach of his protest. Then Captain Davis, with fitting, deprecatory preamble, Launched himself on a story that promised to be all a story Could be expected to be, when one of those women--you know them-- Who interrupt on any occasion or none, interrupted, Pointed her hand, and asked, "Oh, what is that island there, captain?" "That one, ma'am?" He gave her the name, and then the woman persisted, "Don't say you know them all by sight!" "Yes, by sight or by feeling." "What do you mean by feeling?" "Why, just that by daylight we see them, And in the dark it's like as if somehow we felt them, I reckon. Every foot of the channel and change in it, wash-out and cave-in, Every bend and turn of it, every sand-bar and landmark, Every island, of course, we have got to see them, or feel them." "But if you don't?" "But we've got to." "But aren't you ever mistaken?" "Never the second time." "Now, what do you mean, Captain Davis? Never the second time." "Well, let me tell you a story. It's not the one I begun, but that island you asked about yonder