She thinks she smells the Northland rime,
And the dear dark nights of winter-time.

Her very bolts are sick for shore,
And we--we want it ten times more!

So all you Gods that love brave men,
Send us a three-reef gale again!

Send us a gale, and watch us come,
With close-cropped canvas slashing home!

But--there's no wind in all these seas.
A long pull for Stavanger!
So we must wake the white-ash breeze,
A long pull for Stavanger!




OLD MEN AT PEVENSEY



'It has naught to do with apes or Devils,'Sir Richard went on, in an
undertone. 'It concerns De Aquila, than whom there was never bolder nor
craftier, nor more hardy knight born. And remember he was an old, old
man at that time.'