He said going to sea was a dog’s life.  But I liked it, and followed it up.  I think it was in my twentieth year that I shipped on board the Eliza Ann, Captain.  Saunders, bound from Boston to Calcutta.  This was my first long voyage as a sailor.  Among the crew was one they called Jamie, as smart as a steel-trap, and handsome as a picture.  He was not our countryman.  I think he was part Scotch.  The passengers were always noticing him.  One day, when he stood leaning against the foremast, with his black hair blowing out in the wind, a young man with a portfolio got me to keep him there, still, for a while:  he was an artist, and wanted to make a drawing of him.  The sailors all liked him because he was so clever, and so lively, and knew so many songs, and could hop about the rigging, light as a bird.  Only a few knew him.  They said he had no home but the sea.

He afterwards told me this himself, one dark night, when we were leaning together over the rail, as if listening to the splash of the water.  He began his sea-life by running away.  He said but little, and that in a mournful way that made me pity him, and wonder he could be so lively.  I didn’t know then that sometimes people have to laugh to keep from crying.  “I was all she had,” said he; “and I left her.  I never thought how much she cared for me until I got among all strangers; then I wanted my mother.”  At another time he told me about his return home and finding no mother.  And I told him of my own home and my great flock of sisters.

After this he rather clung to me.  And thus it happened, from my liking Jamie’s handsome face, and from Jamie’s telling me his trouble, that we became fast friends.

When the ship arrived in Boston, I took him home with me.  Father had left off going to sea; but some of the girls were married, and mother called her family small.  I knew she would take the homeless boy into her great motherly heart, along with the rest of us.

We couldn’t have arrived at a better time.  Thanksgiving was just at hand, work was plenty, and Jamie soon in the thickest of it.  ’Twas so good to him, being in a home, though none of his.  The girls were glad enough of his help and his company; for he was full of his fun, and never at a loss for a word.  We never had so much light talk in the house before.  Mother was rather serious, and father did his laughing at the stores.

When Thanksgiving-Day came, however, and the married ones began to flock in with their families, he spoke of going,—­of not belonging.  But we persuaded him, and the girls did all they could to take up his mind, knowing what his feelings must be.

The Thanksgiving dinner was a beautiful sight to see.  I mean, of course, the people round it.  Father talked away, and could eat.  But mother sat in her frilled cap, looking mildly about, with the tears in her eyes, making believe eat, helping everybody, giving the children two pieces of pie, and letting them talk at table.  This last, when we were little, was forbidden.  Mother never scolded.  She had a placid, saintly face, something like Mary’s.  But if we ever giggled at table, she used to say, “Sho! girls!  Don’t laugh over your victuals.”