ship from her fate; but at this moment came a strong swirl of tide, the
log swung round once more and floated off, and the rescuer fell "all
along" into the water. This was nothing unusual, and he came puffing and
panting up the slippery logs, and sat down again, shaking himself like a
Newfoundland puppy. He wished the shipwrecked crew had not seen him; he
knew he should get a whipping when he reached home, but that was of less
consequence. Anyhow, she was an old vessel, and now the captain would
get a new ship--a fine one, full rigged, with new sails as white as
snow; and on his next voyage he would take him, the boy John, in place
of the faithless mate, and they would sail away, away, down the river
and far across the ocean, and then,--then he would hear the sound of the
sea. After all, you never could hear it in the river, though that was,
oh, so much better than nothing! But the things that the shells meant
when they whispered, the things that the wind said over and over in the
pine trees, those things you never could know until you heard the real
sound of the real sea.

The child rose and stretched himself wearily. He had had a happy time,
but it was over now; he must leave the water, which he cared more for
than for anything in the world,--must leave the water and go back to the
small close house, and go to bed, and dream no more dreams. Ah! when
would some one come,--no play hero, but a real one, in a white-sailed
ship, and carry him off, never to set foot on shore again?

He turned to go, for the shadows were falling, and already a fog had
crept up the river, almost hiding the brown, swiftly-flowing water; yet
before leaving the wharf he turned back once more and looked up and
down, with eyes that strove to pierce the fog veil,--eager, longing eyes
of a child, who hopes every moment to see the doors open into
fairy-land.