y well
to come, and are never eager to go, but say little, not being great
talkers, even in their own tongue.

When the last Eskimo has departed, and the children are settled in bed,
the cozy hour of the day has arrived. For a good, old-fashioned tale of
love, fright and adventure, there is no time like a winter's night, when
the wind shrieks down the chimney and whirling snow cuddles into corners
and crannies. When supper is over, and the kitchen is well cleared, the
women of the house may take their yarn and bright needles, while the men
toast their feet at the fire and spin--other yarns, without needles,
which are, perhaps, not so essential, but far more entertaining to
listeners.

This is what we did that winter at Chinik, the home of the Eskimo, in
that far away spot near the Arctic Sea. There were tales of the Norsemen
and Vikings, told by their hardy descendants sitting beside us, as well
as the stories of Ituk and Moses, the aged, called "Uncle," Punni
Churah, big Koki, and "Lowri."

To the verity of the following narrative all these and many others can
willingly vouch.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN.

Many years ago, close under the shadow of old Plymouth Rock, there was
born one day a fair-skinned, blue-eyed baby. Whether from heredity, or
environment, or both, the reason of his spirit will perhaps never
plainly appear, but as the child grew into manhood he seemed filled with
the same adventurous aspirations which had actuated his forefathers,
causing them to leave their homes in old England, and come to foreign
shores. Scarcely had he passed into his teens before he was devouring
tales of pirates, and kindred old sea yarns, and his heart was fired
with ambition to own a vessel and sail the high seas. Not that he
thirsted for a pirate's life, but a seafaring man's adventures he longed
for and decided he must have.

Under these conditions a close application at his desk in the village
school was an unheard-of consequence; and, having repeatedly smarted
under the schoolmaster's ferule, not to mention his good mother's
switches plucked from the big lilac bush by her door, he decided to run
away to the great harbor, and ship upon some vessel bound for a foreign
land.

This he did. Then followed the usual hard, rough life of a boy among
sailors in distant ports; the knotted rope's end, the lip blackening
language and curses, storms, shipwrecks and misfortunes; all followed as
a part of t