The old sea-dogs are usually wise, like Ulysses; but the young ones will have their day.
Then again we have swarthy sailors from sunny West Indian ports, who wander about seeking for those who speak their own tongue, in order to sell odorous packages of cigars concealed in their pockets — cigars in which all the soporific fragrance of the tropics seems concentrated.
And having performed their little work of contrabandistas, they depart to enjoy a little fun with the profits thereof.
So do they sail from port to port; — more wearied by their stay on shore than by mighty wrestling with the Giant of Storms; for the whisky is not good, and there are other things which are worse.
But the sea who loves her children braces their strength up once more with the elixir of her bright winds; and drives
