To-day a boy with goldy hair,
    In a garden of Grand Latite,
    From his mother’s knee looks out to sea
    For the coming of the fleet.

    They all may home on a sleepy tide,
    To the flap of the idle sail;
    But it’s never again the Nancy’s Pride
    That answers a human hail.

    They all may home on a sleepy tide
    To the sag of an idle sheet;
    But it’s never again the Nancy’s Pride
    That draws men down the street.

    On the Banks to-night a fearsome sight
    The fishermen behold,
    Keeping the ghost watch in the moon
    When the small hours are cold.

    When the light wind veers, and the white fog clears,
    They see by the after rail
    An unknown schooner creeping up
    With mildewed spar and sail.

    Her crew lean forth by the rotting shrouds,
    With the Judgment in their face;
    And to their mates’ “God save you!”
    Have never a word of grace.

    Then into the gray they sheer away,
    On the awful polar tide;
    And the sailors know they have seen the wraith
    Of the missing Nancy’s Pride.

ARNOLD, MASTER OF THE SCUD

    There’s a schooner out from Kingsport,
    Through the morning’s dazzle-gleam,
    Snoring down the Bay of Fundy
    With a norther on her beam.

    How the tough wind springs to wrestle,
    When the tide is on the flood! 
    And between them stands young daring—­
    Arnold, master of the Scud.

    He is only “Martin’s youngster,”
    To the Minas coasting fleet,
    “Twelve year old, and full of Satan
    As a nut is full of meat.”

    With a wake of froth behind him,
    And the gold green waste before,
    Just as though the sea this morning
    Were his boat pond by the door,

    Legs a-straddle, grips the tiller
    This young waif of the old sea;
    When the wind comes harder, only
    Laughs “Hurrah!” and holds her free.

    Little wonder, as you watch him
    With the dash in his blue eye,
    Long ago his father called him
    “Arnold, Master,” on the sly,

    While his mother’s heart foreboded
    Reckless father makes rash son. 
    So to-day the schooner carries
    Just these two whose will is one.

    Now the wind grows moody, shifting
    Point by point into the east. 
    Wing and wing the Scud is flying
    With her scuppers full of yeast.

    And the father’s older wisdom
    On the sea-line has descried,
    Like a stealthy cloud-bank making
    Up to windward with the tide,

    Those tall navies of disaster,
    The pale squadrons of the fog,
    That maraud this gray world border
    Without pilot, chart, or log,

    Ranging wanton as marooners
    From Minudie to Manan. 
    “Heave to, and we’ll reef, my master!”
    Cries he; when no will of man