"Er spielt mit seiner Flinte,
Sie funkelt im Sonnenroth,
Er prasentirt, und schultert,--
Ich wollt', er schosse mich todt."

"O!" says Cousin Lucy, either because the poignant melancholy of the
sentiment has suddenly pierced her, or because she does not quite
understand the German,--you never can tell about women. While Frank smiles
down upon her in this amiable doubt, their party is approached by the
tipsy man who has been making the excursion so merry for the other
passengers, in spite of the fact that there is very much to make one sad
in him. He is an old man, sweltering in rusty black, a two days' gray
beard, and a narrow-brimmed, livid silk hat, set well back upon the nape
of his neck. He explains to our friends, as he does to every one whose
acquaintance he makes, that he was in former days a seafaring man, and
that he has brought his two little grandsons here to show them something
about a ship; and the poor old soul helplessly saturates his phrase with
the rankest profanity. The boys are somewhat amused by their grandsire's
state, being no doubt familiar with it, but a very grim-looking old lady
who sits against the pilot-house, and keeps a sharp eye upon all three,
and who is also doubtless familiar with the unhappy spectacle, seems not
to find it a joke. Her stout matronly umbrella trembles in her hand when
her husband draws near, and her eye flashes; but he gives her as wide a
berth as he can, returning her glare with a propitiatory drunken smile and
a wink to the passengers to let them into the fun. In fact, he is full of
humor in his tipsy way, and one after another falls the prey of his free
sarcasm, which does not spare the boat or any feature of the excursion. He
holds for a long time, by swiftly successive stories of his seafaring
days, a very quiet gentleman, who dares neither laugh too loudly nor show
indifference for fear of rousing that terrible wit at his expense, and