September Sixth, 1901

A stowaway slept in a nook in the hold;
     Fiercely the storm smote the writhing wave,
And the good ship strained while her captain told
The turbulent watches, growing heart-old
     As he guided his craft to a port or a grave.
     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·     ·
The young sun smiled on the ship as she rode
     At anchor, and flashed morning-peace on the bay.
But the skulker saw where the captain strode
On the deck late-scarred by the tempest’s goad,
     And smote him as only a man-fiend may!!