SAILOR'S LOG Lew B.Wallace Pass ,]i /'„«-, Book_ GcjpgteN?- COFYRIGHT DEPOSm Sailors J£og c Pagesfro?n a sailor s log, giving his impressions of sea life, and of "Over There" 'ByJ^w ©. Wallace C°py r igft f > Jpip, by jQe^v ®. Wallace »AU Rights Reserved MAR ~o ibid .A512488 TO Those good comrades of the Allies whom I met in France, occasions marking some of the happier milestones on the road to Victory: Arthur James Australian Expeditionary Force Monsieur Jas. Jagut French Military Force Walter C. Reich 29 Aero Squadron American Expeditionary Force I dedicate this little book. Lew B. Wallace Armed Guard United States Navy. v? <^A Sailor s J^og The Sailor If one were to write of all the incidents that occur in the transi- tion of a boy from a mere land lub- ber to the coveted state of being considered sea going, he would be forced to expurgate, so I am telling you only the lighter side, the side that really counts to the boys of the Armed Guard who are running the so-called (by the Huns) U-boat blockade. For the first few months he must be thoroughly engaged in trying to appear like a seasoned sailor in the presence of his salty comrades. Keeping the starboard eye on his trouser legs, lest he be- come hopelessly entangled in their voluminous lower extremities, is 3 A SAILOR'S LOG no little part of his training. He also enjoys the pleasure of trying to keep his neck covered where it rises in scrawny splendor from his peek-a-boo. Add to this, the nerve- racking vigilance that must con- stantly be kept to preserve the hil- arious angle at which every sea dog's pie hat must sit. These are a few of his difficulties, but after a trip or two across the pond he begins to call the hair on his chest "sea-weed," then his troubles lessen and by a little camouflage, he is able to stand in with the salts and be considered one of 'em. Going Over It sounds well enough reading from the best papers of the trip A SAILORS LOG over written by the paid corres- pondent who travels in a snug warm stateroom, but this is the account of a sailor's experiences, written after much meditation dur- ing the long, cold, dark hours of midnight gun watches, and in spare moments between mess and boat drills. We were all very anxious to start, as this was our first trip and it was some time before we were subdued by the pressure of strict military discipline. Lights were turned out at dusk and when a hush had fallen on the ship, we would lie in our bunks and make fun of each other's home town, tell- ing what a good fellow the fire department or the police force used to be. We talked of every- 5 A SAILOR'S LOG thing but the war; that we left to the newspapers and the ones back home. One of the most bitter hardships we had to undergo was to stop smoking at sundown. You can very plainly see it would never do to have a multitude of cigarette ends glowing on deck until the ship resembled Halley's Comet. It wasn't all work and gun watches, however. We had some amusements. There were "The Calamity Four" with their two comb-a-phones, a mouth organ, and a trap drummer (instrument a pie tin). Also some hilarious crap games with bent forms, groans and loud laughing took place until an order from the one higher up forbade gambling of any kind. It was a fine thing to stand on 6 A SAILOR'S LOG deck before sunrise, clad in our wind- proof hoods, resembling nothing in the world quite so much as a band of night riders from Dixon's Clansman. Often we stood watching our sister ships emerge in gradual beauty from the gray mists of the dawn and golden shafts breaking through tinted the gray with crim- son as the sun gradually advanced upon the day. But these beauties are for the man off watch, he of the watch could not tell if the sky is pink or green, but he can tell you when a sub hoves in sight, that is what he is there for and he is on the job. I am Sea Sick If you ever made a sea voyage 7 A SAILOR'S LOG and experienced that wonderful sensation "sea sickness," you will, in all probability, agree with me in saying the little sailor was right who told his captain he would eat nothing but jam as that was the only thing on board that tasted the same in its wild flight going down and coming up. I awoke one morning to find the sea lashed into a heterogeneous mass of mountains and valleys. Not to be daunted, however, I ate a hearty breakfast also a sub- stantial dinner of roast pork and all the trimmings accessory *o said bird. After which I laid me down for forty winks. Not long after, about three o'clock, to be precise, I was awak- ened by the overturning of a 8 A SAILORS LOG bench and found myself dangling, as it were, 'twixt heaven and earth. The sensation was one of indes- cribable horror, and how I got outside will always remain a mys- tery to me. My next vivid recollection was of draping myself in a most inar- tistic manner over the rail, listen- ing to the wild waves saying, "Eventually, why not now?'' I heeded the call and "gave up the ghost." After bounteously feeding various animals of the deep and camouflaging the ship's sides, I returned to my bunk fully con- vinced that I was destined to be the principal actor in a little marine drama entitled "A Burial at Sea." a sailor's log Mess Gear One perfectly new sailor, when asked, "What is mess gear?" said "It's things to eat with." I don't think he meant to include hands in his statement, neverthe- less he could have done so with safety, if he were on this particular ship. Which one of us has not laughed at the dish-smashing in some popular comedy? That is an every day occurrence with us and long ago has ceased to be funny; the comedy is bordering on tragedy as the supply of crockery is giving out and we are still five days from land. Not only has this daily dish-smashing endan- gered the law of supply and demand, but it has been the cause of the IO A SAILOR'S LOG disappearance of our mess cook's usually placid countenance, it being replaced by the haunted look of one driven to despair. A long table fully equipped with the necessary eating utensils, a sudden sea, and picture a poor skinny mess cook with that haunt- ed look in his eyes, stretching forth his long boney arms in a vain at- tempt to keep the gear from going deckward with a disastrous crash. It really is surprising how many things one lone mess cook can hold on to in the throes of desperation. There is one piece in particular that is especially dear, a large white pitcher, the last of its noble race, which is used to hold the liquid monstrosity we call milk. When not in its place of honor on ii A SAILOR'S LOG the mess table, it rests in state, for safety's sake, in the mess cook's bunk, tenderly wrapped in a blanket. During a rough sea, our favorite pastime is reminding him to hold everything, but to save the pitcher. To complete the difficulty, our cook's name is Ignatz. He was a nice boy before we sailed, but after the protecting influence of Miss Liberty had faded, he changed. He began his downward course by saying, " Gosh Darn it" and went down to "gee whiz." Then, with the constant smashing of dishes, his language has become the kind you would hardly find in a modern grammar. So I would say, with all respect to Mr. Theodore H. Price "Con- 12 A SAILOR'S LOG stant and exquisite pain will finally make the strongest man unconscious, and uninterrupted contemplation of distress is apt to atrophy the mind.' , The case fits the mess cook and his precious gear, and we too have ceased to care. The Great Adventure The affair cries haste And speed must answer. — Othello. With a feeling of thankfulness we put off from the hot, dusty docks to be engulfed by the cool sea breezes. For all that, the feeling was mingled with one of disgust, disgust that on ieturning each trip we were forced to report 13 A SAILOR'S LOG " Nothing Doing." So we were in hopes of a chance shot at the wily sea wolves to dispell the mono- tony of a tiresome journey. A wonderful calm sea, not a ripple; the eastern sky glorious in its purple maze, gradually chang- ing to crimson and gold; engines pounding along with regular beat; Old Glory majestically floating at the mast; one of those mornings that makes one glad he is alive. You fill your lungs with the invig- orating sea air, look out at the sun- rise and up at the sun-kissed Stars and Stripes and, oh well, it is a feeling that is indescribable — you must live it to understand. The buzzing of the alarm breaks 14 A SAILOR'S LOG in upon the stillness. The cox- swain on our forward gun ever on the job has sighed a torpedo. It is only a matter of seconds and every one is on deck, the blue- jackets at their guns. Our chief grabs the wheel and pulls us around. Swish — and the torpedo passes our bow and picks a sister ship. After the shock came the roar of the explosion with thrilling resonance, and a gigantic column of water rises seventy feet skyward. The armed guards have not been idle. The roar of the explosion is immediately supplemented by a series of shocks on the vessel's side as the destroyers dash back and forth dropping death-dealing depth bombs. A periscope shows up to our starboard and before 15 A SAILOR'S LOG the fleet convoy boats can wheel about, we are sending it a message from the U. S. A. A sea-plane joins the fray and swooping down from the sky drops a depth bomb scoring a perfect hit. There is also danger lurking ahead as we learn, when the guns of a torpedo boat explode a huge mine. Now, if the Germans think or hope to drive the fear of the Hun into American hearts by such performances, they are very much mistaken. No, we were not afraid, but we were d mad. We are safe in port now and sit- ting around the mess table in our snug quarters, we think of the brave lads out there with their sunken ship, and to them in sil- ence we give a toast. And we 16 A SAILOR'S LOG agree that after all our first en- counter with a sub was no joke, and that like the illustrious John Paul Jones, "We have not yet begun to fight." France After spending a few weeks in France, I was more than ready to agree with the many who think it the loveliest land in all Europe, so beautiful and rich, and with such a mild climate, one must stop and think to realize how far north she lies, between the forty-second and fifty-first parallels. Of course, the quaint costumes of the village people were both picturesque, and I might say, rather amusing to one not accustomed to them. The 17 A SAILOR'S LOG more noticeable ones are of black broadcloth, banded with velvet, worn with little gayly colored silk aprons of delicate hues and richly embroidered. Even those not so fortunate as to possess the broad- cloth and velvet, manage to have the aprons which they don over dresses of cheaper material. And with their odd lace caps of spotless white and shining wooden shoes are considered rather dressed up. Many of the costumes you will see on a Sunday morning, sometimes in spite of those "make you home- sick mists" that take the heart out of you, but bother the natives not at all. One morning we secured bicy- cles in the town and set out to see something of the rural districts. 18 A SAILOR'S LOG Out past moss grown thatched roofed cottages we rode. The country folk came out and called "Vive TAmerique" as a welcome to us. At one farm house, the people insisted that we partake of a bowl of fresh creamy milk; at another, it was cider; and at one farm a wee mademoiselle came clattering after us in her wooden shoes with an offer of walnuts. True, the com- bination was a poor one, but who could refuse such hospitality and show of good will? Certainly not a hungry sailor on a bicycle. Stopping at a wayside inn to rest we saw a young farmer who was a good type of the people we had met in this district. Desiring to have his photograph, I advanced 19 A SAILOR'S LOG with a good old American smile, and started to use my limited and over-worked French vocabulary. At last I understood him to say that he did not wish to buy my camera. I could not convince him that I did not want to sell him the camera. But my French was hopeless, and he would not pose for us. I settled the argument by producing a package of Fatimas (You know the saying "Money Talks," well in France "American cigarettes talk"). While I was bidding him an over polite fare- well, my companion clicked the camera and I secured my picture after all. At every cross road, and some- times at the very farm gates, one finds little shrines and crude crosses 20 A SAILOR'S LOG where the simple country folk stop on their busy way to pour out their hearts in humble prayer. Une Belle Journee a La France If Carrie Jacobs Bond could have been to-day in this particular part of France, she would have written lines equally as famous as "The End of a Perfect Day." Imagine, if you can, a huge horseshoe of gleaming white stone and sand, three miles in length. On one side it is washed by the blue waters of the bay and on the other is lined with many gray stone houses, their red-tiled roofs and gilded balconies glistening in the sunlight. The horseshoe is crowned by 21 A SAILOR'S LOG an ever moving mass of humanity. Grande dames still clinging to their ancient costumes in spite of this age of modernism and invasion of Americanisms pass, often accom- panied by little tots in wooden shoes, short stockings, and queer little black Russian blouses. Then, too, the older and more modernly dressed sons and daughters mingle with the strolling poilus. Here and there a dash of crimson flashes among them, their officers in their distinctive dress. Le Chapeau Blue of the sailors with "pompoms de rouge" are also very much in evidence. There is no need to mention the American sailor. It is a well established fact that, being rather susceptible to propinquity, you will always find him where 22 A SAILOR'S LOG pretty mademoiselle is wont to promenade. A sleek destroyer creeps silently from the base and wends its way to the open sea and a giant diri- gible glides languidly over the bay, casting a fleeting shadow on the watching throng, while it keeps an observant eye on the waters below for possible submarines. The whole conglomerate mass of color is predominated by the khaki clad boys from the U. S. A. Add to all this medley, the holiday spirit which attends one during the first days of Spring and you have a picture of " A Perfect Day in France." La Place Marceau One morning I decided to visit 23 A SAILOR'S LOG the quaint old market place, so when the sea gulls, the first living things to respond to the day, began circling and croaking above the bay, I made my way to the centre of the town to the market place, a great institution this in every town of France. Coming upon it unexpectedly, it immediately reminds one of a gypsy camp scene from some famous old opera. There are numerous rows of gayly colored awnings and tents, under which the old women in their queer costumes, wooden shoes and quaint little lace caps vend their non- descript wares. Back of the tents stand the high wheeled carts, the little donkeys out of harness sway- ing long fuzzy ears and braying oc- casionally thereby frightening the 24 A SAILOR'S LOG lazy dogs who seem to be a part of every vender's equipment. At the market place you may buy almost anything from needles and thread to old clothes and fresh eggs. An American would say "Everything from soup to nuts." How I enjoyed this morning stroll to the market! Everything is so picturesque and affords one an excellent chance to study the French people from close range. To see them walking calmly about one might never know that their beloved France is at this moment in the vortex of a world war. Enough cannot be said to make you in the land of plenty appreciate the brav- ery of these people in spite of all the hardships undergone by them in the past and the privations 25 A SAILOR'S LOG they are willing to face before the glorious armies of the Allies shall bring peace by victory. To me it is simply wonderful that they are still smiling, a little sadly, perhaps, but nevertheless, filled with that same indomitable spirit with which Jeanne d'Arc led to victory the hosts of France so long ago. A Day at an Australian Rest Camp Hail, hail the gang's all here, So what the These words accompanied by a mandolin and a guitar floated out to me as I tramped up the winding road where the rest camp nestles snuggly in the hills. The 26 A SAILOR'S LOG road was a dusty one and I had walked far and was rather out of sorts. However, the two guards at the gate soon dispelled all ill feeling by giving me a cheery greeting and going out of their way to direct me to the hut where lived my soldier friend. As we came up to the little green Y.M.C.A. Hut, a dozen heads were poked from the windows and the ice was immediately broken when a chorus of voices yelled in unison, "Lord strike me, a Yankee sailor. Hello there, Yank." "Hello Ossie," I answered, and from then on the camp was mine. They were a fine lot, those big husky sunburned Australian boys. They never tire of telling Yankee stories and are proud of the fact A SAILOR'S LOG that they know all the latest American popular songs. One of the fellows was very enthusiastic about an American girl who had nursed him while in a hospital. The Australians call these American girls "The little American Sisters." "I often refused to take my medicine," he told me, "just to hear her say, 'Now do be a dear/ and when I told her that I had taken it, I liked to hear her say, 'Now did you, honest to goodness?' " After I had spent a good hour trying to teach them the very in- tricate task of rolling their own with some good old American Bull Durham, we were interrupted by "Chow" call. Of course, I was invited to have "tea" as they call 2S A SAILOR'S LOG it. I marched with the rest to the "chow house" feeling, in my sailor suit in this great crowd of soldiers, like a fish out of water. The mess hall was spotlessly clean. The men sit twelve at a table and are served with an ample ration of meat, bread, butter, cheese, and jam. Each receives all the tea he cares to drink. After tea, pipes and cigarettes were brought out and we sat for a long time exchanging songs and stories until the stars came out in force and the smoke from our camp- fire drifted idly into the transient evening breeze. With reluctance, I started back to the city, accom- panied as far as the gate by two of my new friends. As I walked down the road, 29 A SAILOR'S LOG dimmed by evening shadows, I looked back again and again to see the lights disappear one by one, and when I reached the car, my last look revealed a tented city nestling peace- fully in the shadowy hills, bathed in the mellow light of a summer moon, a great, great camp that, the very atmosphere spelled rest, the rest that a soldier really needs after a long grilling at the front. Paris Who of us has not dreamed of Paris, with its flowers and tree bordered avenues? I had many, many times, so with varied emo- tions I alighted from the toy train at one of the largest stations in that beautiful city. 30 A SAILOR'S LOG At the summit of the stone steps that lead to the street, I paused as the streets re-echoed with a ter- rific explosion. "What was that?" I asked an old newswoman near by. She looked at me rather startled, her wrinkled old visage plainly showing her astonishment, then, seeing that I was an American, she shrugged her shoulders and with a half laugh and half sneer, said, " Oh, la la, eet ees beeg Bertha cough this morning, " then, with a derisive little chuckle she con- tinued selling her papers as if it did not matter at all. I took a cab to the hotel, trying to puzzle out this new phase of human character. This was not my first trip to France and I had 31 A SAILOR'S LOG prided myself on being rather well acquainted with the characteris- tics of the French people. But not until I arrived in Paris did I fully realize the extent of the wonderful morale of these splendid people. Through the opportune guid- ance of the Y. M. C. A. worker at the station, I arrived at my hotel in a cool quiet spot near the centre of the city. Here trips were ar- ranged for the soldiers on leave, and being the only sailor there, I was readily taken with the dough- boys. We saw Paris, but a Paris far more wonderful than anything I had ever dreamed of. Paris, the city of wide, green bordered avenues, brilliant flowers, and sand bags; true there is nothing at all wonderful about sand bags, but 32 A SAILOR'S LOG you will never forget them. I wondered what Voltaire or Balzac would say to all this. Away we sped to the Place de Republique, where we were given half an hour to dream and recon- struct the Bastille and live over the days of the great revolution, to be roughly brought back to the troub- led present by the bursting of a big Bertha somewhere in the dis- tance, and a summons to leave as we had much yet to see. Up to the Cathedral of Notre Dame we rolled and entering into its cool dim exterior we spent a few moments with Victor Hugo and tried to imagine the gay little gypsy girl who danced to her death in the square before it. At the tomb of Napoleon, three 33 A SAILOR'S LOG soldiers and myself decided to do some exploring on our own. We founda jolly little cafe on a quiet side street where we intended to lunch. Of course, I had forgotten my book on "Easy French for Soldiers and Sailors," as I usually did when it was most needed. The boys confessed their inability to cope with the situation, their vocabulary being confined to "Oui, oui" and "Sil vous plait." I knew we could not sit around forever, so I undertook to order. We wanted eggs, our old standby, and I had forgotten its equivalent in French. Nothing daunted I said, with the straightest face I could con- jure up, " Souvenir le pull." I was hardly prepared for the laughter that came from a dozen nearby persons. 34 A SAILOR'S LOG Mademoiselle joined the rest, "Des oeufs, des oeufs, oui oui. Souvenir of a chicken, eggs." The laugh was on me. After lunch we wandered around until evening. Strolling down the deepening dusk of Champs Ely- sees, out across one of the beau- tiful bridges spanning the Seine, now turned crimson by the last rays of the setting sun, back to the hotel, we realized what we had not realized during college days and through many books, we had the past brought to us alive, thrilling and alluring, all woven into the momentous present. The Return If counting the days, hours, 35 A SAILOR'S LOG and minutes could be called pass- ing the time, we did it most admir- ably on our return trip. Although we were anxious to go, we were more anxious to return. You can imagine how slowly those watches dragged on, but everything must end some time, so we arrived at last. What a shout went up when we saw, framed by the rising sun, that dark outline we knew to be the home land. Then and not until then, standing at the rail with bared head in the crisp air of that bright Winter morning, did I realize the true significance of the oft repeated lines: Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself has said This is my own, my native land. 36 A SAILOR'S LOG A sailor's prayer You often hear a sisters prayer For brothers on the sea Or a mother's prayer at twilight For the likes o' you and me. But this is only a sailor's prayer As he sails the bounding main He asks each night as he goes to rest God grant not asked in vain. "Oh give us men and ships with speed To carry food and shot and shell For the fighting boys in khaki Out there on the edge of hell." "And when the war is over, When right regains her throne, Oh, give us twice the ships and speed To bring the Yankees home." a sailor's pal I miss the look in your soft brown eyes And your whimper, joyous, deep The quivering bit of satin coat Lying prostrate at my feet. 37 A SAILOR'S LOG Wherever I wandered in sunshine and rain, You were there at my beck and call Encouraging pleasures, consoling in pain Always ready for dash or maul. I think of you often, little brown pal As I sail thru the sunshine and fog I am lonely at night and thru the long day For I miss you, my little brown dog. MY LITTLE DITTY BAG If me buttons all come off And me pants begin to sag, I'll find a needle and some thread In me little ditty bag. And if me undershirt wears out And seems a useless rag, I'll hnd the cloth to make a patch In me little ditty bag. There's everything from soup to nuts, A book of ancient gag, There's chewing gum and a corn cob pipe In me little ditty bag. 33 A SAILOR'S LOO But best of all a girlie's name May her efforts never lag So I may write and thank her For me little ditty bag. TWILIGHT AT SEA When the sun comes down to meet the sea And sinks to the western fold Leaving behind its mystic calm And shafts of burnished gold, When little cloud ships scurry by To the west and out of sight, Then, a glorious, golden day gives way to the reign of night. Deep and clear as the ocean blue When evening shadows fall; Calm as a balmy day of spring When first the robins call. Grey as the mists at twilight At the end of a perfect day; Tender as Mother's can ever be "I love you," they seemed to say. 39 A SAILOR'S LOG Mother, whose eyes are in my dreams, With caresses and love for me; The crudest thing they ever did Was to close for eternity. TO YOU A vision I see in yonder fire? A slender figure standing there. With softest eyes And the softest hair Who dares the flames revenging fire? I hold my breath, my heart beats fast, Unless it fade with the wintry blast. This vision bright As a starry night Or a precious gem on velvet cast. The sun has set, sad night fast falls And visions form on memory's walls That take me away to the yesterdays Methinks I love the voice that calls. I know those hands, those little feet A lock of that hair, a treasure I keep As a pirate bold guards his gold, I watch the form mid the fire's white heat. 40 A SAILOR'S LOG T watch close, for it cannot stay Until another break of day; Even now it fades from the fire myth's raids And to my sorrow steals away. This is the vision that came and grew Out of the fire's bright rosy hue; I love it still and always will For the mystic form was just like you. TO AN AUTUMN LEAF Ah crimson leaf that many a summer's day hath idly swayed By murmuring brook, upon yon sun- kis't tree. Soon with the dying cadence of the robin's farewell song You must come floating down to me. And then, indeed, what secrets you might' tell Of loriot love trysts, and of happy youths Who, with laughing damsels, often came To rest beneath thy shady spell. 4i A SAILOR'S LOG How like a life art thou, my leaf, Sunshine for thy gladness and storm clouds for thy woe. How strong we think we are, and yet how weak When nature calls and we must go. VIOLETS She sent me a bunch of sweet violets Plucked from the woodland hills; Sweet memories of my childhood days My heart with joy, they seem to fill. There's many a picture on memory's wall Of days that have happy been Once again I hear the wild bird's call They seem to softly say It's only a bunch of sweet violets Sweetheart, she sent to me. Plucked from the dear old woodland. Tho' far away she may be. A message of love they are bringing Sweetheart, my love is true Though it is only a few sweet violets That bring memories, sweetheart, of you. 42 A SAILORS LOG I see again the shining lake, The golden sunset sky, I see a face for whose dear sake A tear now dims my eye. Again the summer breezes blow I hear the rippling stream. And all the days so long gone by Pass like a happy dream. To the Memory of W. W. A. A row of dainty poppies lift their crim- son heads, Where the morning sunlight bathes And kissed by gentle summer breezes They nod their sleepy way. A purple pansy stands beneath the ferns' cool shade And down its velvet face a glistening dewdrop runs. It's head, half turned as if in expecta- tion For one who never comes. 43 A SAILOR'S LOG The music of the fountain, as it falls and trickles to the pool Is just as soft and sweet As on that day — when first we met And the flagstones of the path resounded his quick step. A golden oriole rests on the green arch of the gate And sending forth its deep throated melody, Startles the bees that drone above the phlox Happy and content, as he was won't to be. I sit beside the pool's calm, dusky depths And reminesce the while. Though he has gone — his garden still reflects The virile beauty of his smile. EVENING At last the day is dying, and the heav- enly skies of blue Are softly covered over with the sun- set's rosy hue. The little birds are chirping as they nestle in the leaves, 44 A SAILOR'S LOG And the toiling youths are happy as they gather in the sheaves. With the glory of the passing day, the evening sky is lit And the purple cloud doors lined with gold are closing bit by bit. Far flung across the deepening sky are banners red and gold, And small white clouds of silver fleece drift to the western fold. Like benedictions sweet, the mysterious twilight comes, And over the still night sky a veil of stars is flung. The nightingale is singing to his soul- mate in the dell. God has created a perfect day, 'tis over and all is well. Oh wonderful hour of twilight, the hour of peace and rest. When the unseen artist paints with fire yon rugged mountain's crest 'Tis an hour when our hearts are longing for the loved ones gone before, Who have fought as we are fighting, now at rest to fight no more. 45 A SAILOR'S LOG THE SNOW GHOST Last night when the little village Lay in peaceful sleep, A mystic ghost from out the clouds Began to softly creep. He hid in all the corners And sat upon the sills. He skipped across the house tops And danced upon the hills. He whistled away o'er prairies And dipped his steaming flanks Where icy streams meander, and sprayed Their sedgy banks. And when at last we all awoke We found, of course, you know That the pranky ghost who came last night Was only Father Snow. 46 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 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