We can't get 'em up; we can't get 'em up; We can't get 'em up in the morning. fits the call so completely that one who has once learned it can never forget what it means. Again when the bugles sound the sick bay call you find yourself unconsciously saying to yourself: Come and get your quinine, quinine. When the officers' call for quarters is sounded you feel like saying to the one nearest you: Get your sword on; get your sword on. When the mess call is blown you know that the bluejackets are saying to themselves as the notes blare out: Soupy, soupy, soup, without a single bean; Porky porky, pork, without a streak of lean. When assembly sounds you join with the rest in the warning: You'd better be here at the next roll call. When the swimming call comes you say to yourself: Bought a chicken for fifty cents; The son of a gun jumped over the fence! When the call for pay day is made you know how the men feel as they say: Pay day; pay day; come and get your pay. And when tattoo is over and then comes taps you feel drowsy as the sweet notes, one of the very few in army or navy calls that are sweet, sing to you: Go to sleep; go to sleep; go to sleep. Oh, yes, you finally get to know many of these calls and then somehow the discord seems to leave them, and, like the ship that found herself, you begin to find yourself on shipboard and you feel that you are getting on. That bugling ceases to trouble you further. The pipes of the bos'n also pierce your ears. Always shrill, they all seem to end in a piercing shriek. At first they make you grate your teeth. You feel as if you would prefer that some one would cuss you out, as the naval expression is, rather than give you orders in that mean way. And when you hear these same mates, one of whom is stationed at every place of importance where the men live and sleep, roar out something that seems to be a mixture of the blast of a cyclone, the trumpeting of an elephant and the bray of another animal you think that if you were the sailorman addressed you'd feel like saying to that mate you'd be damned if you'd do it, whatever it was he was ordering you to do. Why, such language as the bos'ns' pipes employ is more calculated to inspire profanity than was the term applied by Daniel O'Connell to the fishwoman when he called her out of her name by saying she was a hypothenuse. But gradually you learn some of these calls too--there are no rhymes or jingles for them--and that worry blows over.