sailing is a finer, more difficult, and sturdier
art than running a motor. Gasolene engines are becoming fool-proof, and
while it is unfair to say that any fool can run an engine, it is fair to
say that almost any one can. Not so, when it comes to sailing a boat.
More skill, more intelligence, and a vast deal more training are
necessary. It is the finest training in the world for boy and youth and
man. If the boy is very small, equip him with a small, comfortable
skiff. He will do the rest. He won't need to be taught. Shortly he
will be setting a tiny leg-of-mutton and steering with an oar. Then he
will begin to talk keels and centreboards and want to take his blankets
out and stop aboard all night.

But don't be afraid for him. He is bound to run risks and encounter
accidents. Remember, there are accidents in the nursery as well as out
on the water. More boys have died from hot-house culture than have died
on boats large and small; and more boys have been made into strong and
reliant men by boat-sailing than by lawn-croquet and dancing-school.

And once a sailor, always a sailor. The savour of the salt never stales.
The sailor never grows so old that he does not care to go back for one
more wrestling bout with wind and wave. I know it of myself. I have
turned rancher, and live beyond sight of the sea. Yet I can stay away
from it only so long. After several months have passed, I begin to grow
restless. I find myself day-dreaming over incidents of the last cruise,
or wondering if the striped bass are running on Wingo Slough, or eagerly
reading the newspapers for reports of the first northern flights of
ducks. And then, suddenly, there is a hurried pack of suit-cases and
overhauling of gear, and we are off for Vallejo where the little _Roamer_
lies, waiting, always waiting, for the skiff to come alongside, for the
lighting of the fire in the galley-stove, for the pulling off of gaskets,
the swinging up of the mainsail, and the rat-tat-tat of the reef-points,
for the heaving short and the breaking out, and for the twirling of the
wheel as she fills away and heads up Bay or down.

JACK LONDON
On Board _Roamer_,
Sonoma Creek,
April 15, 1911

FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR

"Huh! Drive four horses! I wouldn't sit behind you--not for a thousand
dollars--over them mountain roads."

So said Henry, and he ought to have known, for he drives four horses
himself.

Said another Glen Ellen friend: "What