dog's-eared copy of "Robinson Crusoe." And you grow heart and soul into
the story, until you tremble for the poor fellow with his guns behind
the palisade; and are yourself half dead with fright when you peep
cautiously over the hill with your glass, and see the cannibals at their
orgies around the fire.

Yet, after all, you think the old fellow must have had a capital time
with a whole island to himself; and you think you would like such a time
yourself, if only Nelly and Charlie could be there with you. But this
thought does not come till afterward; for the time you are nothing but
Crusoe; you are living in his cave with Poll the parrot, and are looking
out for your goats and man Friday.

You dream what a nice thing it would be for you to slip away some
pleasant morning,--not to York, as young Crusoe did, but to New
York,--and take passage as a sailor; and how, if they knew you were
going, there would be such a world of good-byes; and how, if they did
not know it, there would be such a world of wonder!

And then the sailor's dress would be altogether such a jaunty affair;
and it would be such rare sport to lie off upon the yards far aloft, as
you have seen sailors in pictures, looking out upon the blue and
tumbling sea. No thought now, in your boyish dreams, of sleety storms,
and cables stiffened with ice, and crashing spars, and great icebergs
towering fearfully around you!

You would have better luck than even Crusoe; you would save a compass,
and a Bible, and stores of hatchets, and the captain's dog, and great
puncheons of sweetmeats, (which Crusoe altogether overlooked;) and you
would save a tent or two, which you could set up on the shore, and an