s strange and eccentric
man. He had never heard either of his parents mention his name. He,
however, regarded it as very fortunate that he should be on board a ship
commanded by a captain who held his humble parents in such high regard.
The jolly old sailor finished his story by enjoining Tite to keep what
he had said a matter of confidence. He also made him third mate, to fill
the place of the young man who fell from the fore-mast into the sea
during the gale.

"You shall take a hand at killing the first whale; shall command the
larboard boat. And you shall never want a friend while Captain Price
Bottom treads this quarter-deck," he concluded.

Tite bowed, and thanked his benefactor again. He then proceeded to his
duty, as the ship headed for Bahia, with a fair wind.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE COMING WINTER, AND A MERRY-MAKING.

November was come now. The day I write of was damp and cheerless. Grey,
vapory clouds swept over the Tappan Zee, and a sad, sighing wind tossed
it into crests. A drizzling rain fell over Nyack, and the little town
looked as if it had just taken a bath and gone to sleep for the night.
The hills wore a cold and bleak look, the foliage had lost its bright,
golden tints, and now looked faded and colorless. The leaves, too, were
falling, and the naked trees seemed weeping and cold. Sheep browsed on
the hill-sides, or nibbled coldly under the branches of sheltering
trees. In the wet, dripping barn-yard cattle were seen huddled together
under a lee, now seeking warmth in the fresh shocks, now proclaiming
their troubles in subdued lowing.

The very landscape seemed weeping and melancholy. Even the summer birds,
whose songs give such a charm to the woods, were gone. And there was the
loon upon the lake gabbling his welcome to the approaching winter. The
rain, too, had filled the brooks, and their waters were gurgling down
deep, shadowy dells, mingling their touching music with the sad, sighing
wind. There were pleasant memories entwined in that departing summer;
and it now seemed as if all nature was joining in a requiem to its
fading beauties.

The settlers had gathered their winter fruit, and the cider-presses had
finished their work for the season. Squashes were hung up in the cellar,
the corn was shucked and in the bins, and heaps of ripe, lusty pumpkins
stood in the fields. In the houses fresh flitches of bacon hung by the
fireside, while festoons of dried apples decorated the beams overhea