didn'
keep it, we'd get it agen. So one night 't was a beautiful moonlight
night: I think I never sid a moon so bright as that moon was; an' such
lovely sights a body 'ouldn' think could be! Little islands, an' bigger,
agen, there was, on every hand, shinun so bright, wi' great,
awful-lookun shadows! an' then the sea all black, between! They did look
so beautiful as ef a body could go an' bide on 'em, in a manner; an' the
sky was jes' so blue, an' the stars all shinun out, an' the moon all so
bright! I never looked upon the like. An' so I stood in the bows; an' I
don' know ef I thowt o' God first, but I was thinkun o' my girl that I
was troth-plight wi' then, an' a many things, when all of a sudden we
comed upon the hardest ice we'd a-had; an' into it; an' then, wi' pokun
an' haulun, workun along. An' there was a cry goed up,--like the cry of
a babby, 't was, an' I thowt mubbe 't was a somethun had got upon one o'
they islands; but I said, agen, 'How could it?' an' one John Harris said
'e thowt 't was a bird. Then another man (Moffis 'e's name was) started
off wi' what they calls a gaff, ('t is somethun like a short boat-hook,)
over the bows, an' run; an' we sid un strike, an' strike, an' we hard it
go wump! wump! an' the cry goun up so tarrible feelun, seemed as ef 'e
was murderun some poor wild Inden child 'e'd a-found, (on'y mubbe 'e
wouldn' do so bad as that: but there've a-been tarrible bloody, cruel
work wi' Indens in my time,) an' then 'e comed back wi' a white-coat[E]
over 'e's shoulder; an' the poor thing wasn' dead, but cried an' soughed
like any poor little babby."

[Footnote E: A young seal.]

The young wife was very restless at this point, and, though she did not
look up, I saw her tears. The stout fisherman smoothed out the net a
little upon his knee, and drew it in closer, and heaved a great sigh: he
did not look at his hearers.

"When 'e throwed it down, it walloped, an' cried, an' soughed,--an' its
poor eyes blinded wi' blood! ('Ee sees, Sir," said the planter, by way
of excusing his tenderness, "they swiles were friends to I, after.)
Dear, oh, dear! I couldn' stand it; for 'e _might_ ha' killed un',
an' so 'e goes for a quart o' rum, for fetchun first swile, an' I went
an' put the poor thing out o' pain. I didn' want to look at they
beautiful islands no more, somehow. Bumby it comed on thick, an' then
snow.

"Nex' day swiles bawlun[F] every way, poor things! (I knowed their
voice, now,) but 't