.. for the whole
side of the cabin had been stove in,--and, terrified, his eyes sticking
out, in his dirty underclothes the captain had been hurtled forth, his
face still stupid from sleep though full of fear.
I rushed up to him. His drawers sagged pitiably with wet.
"A close shave, sir!" I remarked.
When I brought him his breakfast he was still trembling.
* * * * *
I left the package freighter _Overland_. It was almost time for the new
school year. But Warriors' River lay in my way back to Laurel, and I
determined to stop off and pay a visit to Baxter, at Barton's Health
Home....
* * * * *
I was disappointed with my summer. In terms of poetic output. I had
written only three or four poems dealing with life on the Lakes, and
these were barely publishable in the _National Magazine._ I realise now
that poetic material is not to be collected as a hunter goes gunning for
game. It cannot be deliberately sought and found. It must just happen.
Yet all the things that I had seen and been through, I knew, would live
in my mind till they were ready of themselves to get birth in words. I
knew that I had not lost a single dawn nor one night of ample moon. And
there drifted back into my remembrance that night when the Italian
coal-passer had come to my bunk and wakened me, that I might come forth
with him and observe a certain wonderful cloud-effect about the full,
just-risen moon, over Huron.
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