THIS tack might fetch Absecom bar,
The wind lies fair for the Dancin' Jane;
She 's good on a wind. If we keep this way,
You might talk with folk in the land of Spain.

A tidy smack of a breeze it be;
Just hear it whistle 'mong them dunes!
It ain't no more nor a gal for strong,—
Sakes! but it hollers a lot of toones.

Ye 'd ought to hear it October-time
A-fiddlin' 'mong them cat-tails tall;
Our Bill can fiddle, but 'gainst that wind
He ain't no kind of a show at all.

Respectin' the wrack you want to see,
It 's yon away, set hard and fast
On the outer bar. When tides is low
You kin see a mawsel of rib and mast.

Four there was on us, wrackers all,
Born and bred to loller the sea,
And Dad beside; that's him you seed
Las' night a-mendin' them nets with me.

Waal, sir, it was n't no night for talk;
The pipes went out, an' we stood, we four,
A-starin' dumb through the rattlin' panes,
And says Tom, 'I 'd as lief be here ashore.'

The wust wind ever I knowed
Was swoopin' across the deep,
An' the waves was humpin' as white as snow,
An' gallopin' in like frighted sheep.

Lord! sich a wind! It tuk that sand
An' flung it squar' on the winder-sash,
An' howled and mumbled 'mong the scrub,
An' yelled like a hurt thing 'cross the ma'sh.

Old Dad as was sittin' side the fire,
Jus' now an' agin he riz his head,
An' says he, 'God help all folks at sea,—
God help 'em livin', and bury 'em dead.

'God help them in smacks as sail,
An' men as v'yage in cruisers tall;
God help all as goes by water,
Big ship and little,—help 'em all.'

'Amen!' says Bill, jus' like it was church;
An' all of a sudden says Joe to me,
'Hallo!' an' thar was a flash of light,
An' the roar of a gun away to sea.

'An' it 's each for all!' cries Dad to me;
'The night ain't much of a choice for sweet.'
So up he jumps an' stamps aroun',
Jus' for to waken his sleepy feet.

'An' it 's into ilers and on with boots,'
Sings Dad; 'thar be n't no time to spar'.
Pull in y'r waist-straps. Hurry a bit;
The shortest time 'll be long out thar.'

I did n't like it, or them no more,
But roun' we scuttles for oar and ropes,
An' out we plunged in the old man's wake,
For we knowed as we was thar only hopes.

The door druv' in; the cinders flew;
The house, it shook; out went the light;
The air was thick with squandered sand,
As nipt like the sting of a bluefly bite.

We passed yon belt of holly and pine,
An' in among them cedar an' oak
We stood a bit on the upper shore,
An stared an' listened, but no man spoke.

'Whar lies she, Bill?' roars Dad to me,
As down we bended. Then bruk' a roar
As follered a lane of dancin' light
That flashed and fluttered along the shore.

'She 's thar,' says Joe; 'I 'd sight of her then;
She 's hard and high on the outer bar.
Nary a light, and fast enough,
And nary a mawsel of mast or spar.'

Groans Dad, 'Good Lord, it 's got to be!'
Says Tom, 'It ain't to be done, I fear.'
Shouts Joe, a-laffin' (he allus laffed),
'It ain't to be done by standin' here.'

Waal, in she went, third time of tryin'—
'In with a will,' laffs Joe, in a roar,
Tom a-cussin' and Dad a-prayin',
But spry enough with the steerin' oar.

Five hours—an' cold. I was clean played out.
'Give way,' shouts Dad, 'give way thar now!'
'Hurray!' laffs Joe. An' we slung her along,
With a prayer to aft an' a laff in the bow.

There was five men glad when we swep' her in:
Under the lee, an' none too soon.
'Aboard thar, mates!' shouts Dad, an' the wind
Just howled like a dog at full of moon.

'Up with you, Bill!' sung Dad. So I—
I grabbed for a broken rope as hung.
Gosh! it was stiff as an anchor-stock,
But up I swarmed, and over I swung.

Ice? She was ice from stem to starn.
I gripped the rail an' sarched the wrack,
An' cleared my eyes, an' sarched agin'
For livin' sign on that slidin' deck.

Four dead men in the scuppers lay.
Stiff as steel, they was froze that fast;
An' one old man was hangin' awry,
Tied to the stump of the broken mast.

Ice-bound he were. But he kinder smiled,
A-lookin' up. I was sort of skeered.
Lord! thinks I, thar was many a prayer
Froze in the snow of that orful beard.

Thar was one man lashed to the wheel,
An' his eyes was a-starin' wild,
An' thar, close-snuggled up in his arms,—
O Lord, sir, the pity!—a little child.

'Dead all,' says I, as I lep to the boat.
'Give way,' an' we bent to the springin' oar;
An' never no word says boy or Dad,
Till we crashed full high on the upper shore.

Then Dad, he dropped for to pray,
But I stood all a-shake on the sand;
An' the old man says, 'I could wish them souls
Was fetched ashore to the joyful land.'

But Joe, he laffs. Says Dad, right mad,
'Shut up. Ye 'd grin if ye went to heaven.'
'Why not?' says Joe. 'As for this here earth,
It takes lots of laffin' to keep things even.'

Ready about, an' mind for the boom;
Ef ye keer for to hold that far,
You may see the Emmeline, keel and rib,
Stuck fast an' firm on the outer bar.