C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Alec Yeatons Son
By Thomas Bailey Aldrich (18361907)
T
And the white caps flecked the sea;
“An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,
“I had not my boy with me!”
Laughed as the scud swept by;
But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wan
As he watched the wicked sky.
And the skipper’s eyes were dim.
“Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,
What would become of him!
For me let hap what may;
I might make shift upon the keel
Until the break o’ day.
So young, scarce learned to stand—
O pitying Father of us all,
I trust him in thy hand!
A sparrow’s fall—each one!—
Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eye
On Alec Yeaton’s son!”
Towards the headland light:
The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,
And black, black fell the night.
Though housed from winds and waves—
They who could tell about that gale
Must rise from watery graves!
Ere half the night was sped,
The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,
And the stars shone overhead.
The folk on Gloucester shore
Saw a little figure floating in
Secure, on a broken oar!
Pull mates, and waste no breath!”—
They knew it, though ’twas but a speck
Upon the edge of death!
At God his strange decree,
That let the stalwart skipper drown
And the little child go free!