Like Uncle Parker， whose rheumatic bones were dashedagainst Egg Rock full forty years ago， I am a spinnerof long yarns. Seated on the gunnel of a dory or on thesunny side of a boat-house， where the warmth is gratefulto my limbs， or by my own hearth when a friend or twoare there， I overflow with talk， and yet am never tedious.
With a broken voice I give utterance to much wisdom.
Such， Heaven be praised！ is the vigor of my faculties thatmany a forgotten usage， and traditions ancient in myyouth， and early adventures of myself or others hithertoeffaced by things more recent， acquire new distinctnessin my memory. I remember the happy days when thehaddock were more numerous on all the fishing-groundsthan sculpins in the surf—when the deep-water cod swamclose in-shore， and the dogfish， with his poisonous horn，had not learnt to take the hook. I can number everyequinoctial storm in which the sea has overwhelmed thestreet， flooded the cellars of the village and hissed uponour kitchen hearth. I give the history of the great whalethat was landed on Whale Beach， and whose jaws， beingnow my gateway， will last for ages after my coffin shallhave passed beneath them. Thence it is an easy digressionto the halibut—scarcely smaller than the whale—whichran out six codlines and hauled my dory to the mouth ofBoston harbor before I could touch him with the gaff.
If melancholy accidents be the theme of conversation，I tell how a friend of mine was taken out of his boat byan enormous shark， and the sad， true tale of a young manon the eve of marriage who had been nine days missing，when his drowned body floated into the very pathway onMarble-head Neck that had often led him to the dwellingof his bride， as if the dripping corpse would have comewhere the mourner was. With such awful fidelity did thatlover return to fulfil his vows！ Another favorite story isof a crazy maiden who conversed with angels and had thegift of prophecy， and whom all the village loved and pitied，though she went from door to door accusing us of sin，exhorting to repentance and foretelling our destructionby flood or earthquake. If the young men boast theirknowledge of the ledges and sunken rocks， I speak ofpilots who knew the wind by its scent and the wave by itstaste， and could have steered blindfold to any port betweenBoston and Mount Desert guided only by the rote of theshore—the peculiar sound of the surf on each island， beachand line of rocks along the coast. Thus do I talk， and all myauditors grow wise while they deem it pastime.
I recollect no happier portion of my life than this mycalm old age. It is like the sunny and sheltered slope ofa valley where late in the autumn the grass is greenerthan in August， and intermixed with golden dandelionsthat had not been seen till now since the first warmthof the year. But with me the verdure and the flowers arenot frost-bitten in the midst of winter. A playfulness hasrevisited my mind—a sympathy with the young and gay，an unpainful interest in the business of others， a light andwandering curiosity—arising， perhaps， from the sense thatmy toil on earth is ended and the brief hour till bedtimemay be spent in play. Still， I have fancied that there is adepth of feeling and reflection under this superficial levitypeculiar to one who has lived long and is soon to die.
Show me anything that would make an infant smile， andyou shall behold a gleam of mirth over the hoary ruin ofmy visage. I can spend a pleasant hour in the sun watchingthe sports of the village children on the edge of the surf.
Now they chase the retreating wave far down over thewet sand； now it steals softly up to kiss their naked feet；now it comes onward with threatening front， and roarsafter the laughing crew as they scamper beyond its reach.
