So We Threw Our Rinds In The Water For The
Fishes To Nibble, And Added Our Breath To The Life
Of living men.
Little did we think, in the distant garden in which we had
planted the seed and reared
This fruit, where it would be eaten.
Our melons lay at home on the sandy bottom of the Merrimack, and
our potatoes in the sun and water at the bottom of the boat
looked like a fruit of the country. Soon, however, we were
delivered from this fleet of junks, and possessed the river in
solitude, once more rowing steadily upward through the noon,
between the territories of Nashua on the one hand, and Hudson,
once Nottingham, on the other. From time to time we scared up a
kingfisher or a summer duck, the former flying rather by vigorous
impulses than by steady and patient steering with that short
rudder of his, sounding his rattle along the fluvial street.
Erelong another scow hove in sight, creeping down the river; and
hailing it, we attached ourselves to its side, and floated back
in company, chatting with the boatmen, and obtaining a draught of
cooler water from their jug. They appeared to be green hands
from far among the hills, who had taken this means to get to the
seaboard, and see the world; and would possibly visit the
Falkland Isles, and the China seas, before they again saw the
waters of the Merrimack, or, perchance, they would not return
this way forever. They had already embarked the private
interests of the landsman in the larger venture of the race, and
were ready to mess with mankind, reserving only the till of a
chest to themselves. But they too were soon lost behind a point,
and we went croaking on our way alone. What grievance has its
root among the New Hampshire hills? we asked; what is wanting to
human life here, that these men should make such haste to the
antipodes? We prayed that their bright anticipations might not
be rudely disappointed.
Though all the fates should prove unkind,
Leave not your native land behind.
The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;
The steed must rest beneath the hill;
But swiftly still our fortunes pace
To find us out in every place.
The vessel, though her masts be firm,
Beneath her copper bears a worm;
Around the cape, across the line,
Till fields of ice her course confine;
It matters not how smooth the breeze,
How shallow or how deep the seas,
Whether she bears Manilla twine,
Or in her hold Madeira wine,
Or China teas, or Spanish hides,
In port or quarantine she rides;
Far from New England's blustering shore,
New England's worm her hulk shall bore,
And sink her in the Indian seas,
Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.
We passed a small desert here on the east bank, between
Tyngsborough and Hudson, which was interesting and even
refreshing to our eyes in the midst of the almost universal
greenness.
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