rced me in. There's a yarn for you, Jacob."

"I like it very much," replied I.

"And now, father, give us a whole song, and none of your little bits."
Old Tom broke out with the "Death of Nelson," in a style that made the
tune and words ring in my ears for the whole evening.

The moon was up before the tide served, and we weighed our anchor; old
Tom steering, while his son was preparing supper, and I remaining
forward, keeping a sharp look-out that we did not run foul of anything.
It was a beautiful night; and as we passed through the several bridges,
the city appeared as if it were illuminated, from the quantity of gas
throwing a sort of halo of light over the tops of the buildings which
occasionally marked out the main streets from the general dark mass--old
Tom's voice was still occasionally heard, as the scene brought to his
remembrance his variety of song.

"For the murmur of thy lip, love,
Comes sweetly unto me,
As the sound of oars that dip, love,
At moonlight on the sea."

I never was more delighted than when I heard these snatches of different
songs poured forth in such melody from old Tom's lips, the notes
floating along the water during the silence of the night. I turned aft
to look at him; his face was directed upwards, looking on the moon,
which glided majestically through the heavens, silvering the whole of
the landscape. The water was smooth as glass, and the rapid tide had
swept us clear of the ranges of ships in the pool; both banks of the
river were clear, when old Tom again commenced:--

"The moon is up, her silver beam
Shines bower, and grove, and mountain over;
A flood of radiance heaven doth seem
To light thee, maiden, to thy lover."

"Jacob, how does the bluff-nob bear? on the starboard bow?"

"Yes--broad on the bow; you'd better keep up half a point, the tide
sweeps us fast."

"Very true, Jacob; look out, and say when steady it is, boy.

"If o'er her orb a cloud should rest,
'Tis but thy cheek's soft blush to cover.
He waits to clasp thee to his breast;
The moon is up--go, meet thy lover.

"Tom, what have you got for supper, boy? What is that frizzing in your
frying-pan? Smells good, anyhow."

"Yes, and I expect will taste good too. However, you look after the
moon, father, and leave me and the frying-pan to play our parts."

"While I sing mine, I suppose, boy.

"The moon is up, round beauty's shine,
Love's pilgrims bend at vesper hour,
Ea