home.
I fell in love with a pretty little girl,
And now I no more roam.
“Through wind and rain and fog and snow
And dangers that she’ll never know,
I’ll walk the barges, tote the chains,
And watch the shoreline creeping by,
For I love my girl, my pretty little girl,
And I’ll love her till I die.”
Paul tapped his guitar and changed the tempo. “It’s a thousand times more fun to play when someone sings along. Do you know this one?” he said as he strummed a few bars.
“Do we?” Dan said enthusiastically. They all sang:
“Down in the churchyard,
All covered with snow,
My true love’s a-lying;
Hang your head low.
“Mourn for my true love,
Under the snow.
Mourn for my sweet love;
Hang your head low.”
When they had finished with the words, they hummed the chorus dreamily. Paul rested his guitar on his knees. “I haven’t heard harmony like that in many a day. Don’t you know any songs from your part of the country?”
“Sure,” Mart answered. “If you think that one we just sang about the graveyard is mournful, you ought to hear some of the songs they sing back home in New York.”
Dan laughed. “No one can beat the Dutch along the Hudson River for scaring up ghosts. You know— songs like ‘Headless Horseman.’ ”
“For heaven’s sake, let’s not sing that one!” Trixie exclaimed. “It makes me feel creepy. How about the one about Rip van Winkle? All you need to do is to strike a few chords now and then, Paul. Let’s sing, Bob-Whites.”
“We’ll sing you a song of the Catskills, oh,
A song of the mountain men... oh.
“Rip van Winkle, on a stormy night,
Left his cruel wife and went up the height
Of the Catskill range, where Hudson’s men
Played ninepins merrily, but when
They gave him a draught, he drank so deep,
It sent him into a twenty-year sleep.
“We’ll sing you a song of the Catskills, oh,
A song of the mountain men... oh.
“When Rip awakened, he yawned and said,
‘Twenty years?’ then rubbed his head,
Took up his stick and called his dog,
Set off for town in the morning fog,
Singing:
“ ‘Now, many a man’s been twenty years wed,
And many a man’s been twenty years dead.
I’ll take the second, you take the first;
Of all man’s troubles, a wife’s the worst.’
“We’ve sung you a song of the Catskills, oh,
A song of a lucky man... oh.”
As the Bob-Whites sang, they swayed back and forth and clapped in rhythm. Deena and the young
deckhands clapped along with them.
At intervals, a white searchlight swung over the singers, silhouetting them against the sky, then released them to darkness again. Its wandering beams startled quiet night animals and birds on shore. Once Paul pointed out the round bright eyes of a swimming deer.
Finally the moon passed under a cloud. Damp fog crept closer. Breathless and a little weary, the young people stopped singing. Paul yawned and lifted the guitar cord from around his neck. “Let’s call it a day. Going along with me? I’m clear tuckered out.”
Wordlessly and a little reluctantly, the Bob-Whites followed, walking the long length of the tow back to the nose of the Catfish Princess.
“Thanks, Paul!” they shouted as the Louisiana boy, Deena, and the other deckhands went down to the crew’s quarters.
“We’ll walk you to your door,” Jim told the girls. “Let me have the key, Trixie. I’ll open it for you.... Say, it’s already open!” He snapped on the light. “Hey, what’s going on in here? Everything’s a terrible mess. I know you girls never left it like this!”
Stowaway ● 6
BEWILDERED, TRIXIE and Honey stood at the door. Everything in the room had been overturned. Bureau drawers were upended, and bedclothing was torn from the bunks. Their cries brought Mrs. Aguilera running from next door. Lights clicked on to illuminate the semidarkness of the corridor. Mr. Aguilera joined his wife.
“A thief’s been here!” Trixie cried. “Call Captain Martin!”
As she spoke, the lights went
I fell in love with a pretty little girl,
And now I no more roam.
“Through wind and rain and fog and snow
And dangers that she’ll never know,
I’ll walk the barges, tote the chains,
And watch the shoreline creeping by,
For I love my girl, my pretty little girl,
And I’ll love her till I die.”
Paul tapped his guitar and changed the tempo. “It’s a thousand times more fun to play when someone sings along. Do you know this one?” he said as he strummed a few bars.
“Do we?” Dan said enthusiastically. They all sang:
“Down in the churchyard,
All covered with snow,
My true love’s a-lying;
Hang your head low.
“Mourn for my true love,
Under the snow.
Mourn for my sweet love;
Hang your head low.”
When they had finished with the words, they hummed the chorus dreamily. Paul rested his guitar on his knees. “I haven’t heard harmony like that in many a day. Don’t you know any songs from your part of the country?”
“Sure,” Mart answered. “If you think that one we just sang about the graveyard is mournful, you ought to hear some of the songs they sing back home in New York.”
Dan laughed. “No one can beat the Dutch along the Hudson River for scaring up ghosts. You know— songs like ‘Headless Horseman.’ ”
“For heaven’s sake, let’s not sing that one!” Trixie exclaimed. “It makes me feel creepy. How about the one about Rip van Winkle? All you need to do is to strike a few chords now and then, Paul. Let’s sing, Bob-Whites.”
“We’ll sing you a song of the Catskills, oh,
A song of the mountain men... oh.
“Rip van Winkle, on a stormy night,
Left his cruel wife and went up the height
Of the Catskill range, where Hudson’s men
Played ninepins merrily, but when
They gave him a draught, he drank so deep,
It sent him into a twenty-year sleep.
“We’ll sing you a song of the Catskills, oh,
A song of the mountain men... oh.
“When Rip awakened, he yawned and said,
‘Twenty years?’ then rubbed his head,
Took up his stick and called his dog,
Set off for town in the morning fog,
Singing:
“ ‘Now, many a man’s been twenty years wed,
And many a man’s been twenty years dead.
I’ll take the second, you take the first;
Of all man’s troubles, a wife’s the worst.’
“We’ve sung you a song of the Catskills, oh,
A song of a lucky man... oh.”
As the Bob-Whites sang, they swayed back and forth and clapped in rhythm. Deena and the young
deckhands clapped along with them.
At intervals, a white searchlight swung over the singers, silhouetting them against the sky, then released them to darkness again. Its wandering beams startled quiet night animals and birds on shore. Once Paul pointed out the round bright eyes of a swimming deer.
Finally the moon passed under a cloud. Damp fog crept closer. Breathless and a little weary, the young people stopped singing. Paul yawned and lifted the guitar cord from around his neck. “Let’s call it a day. Going along with me? I’m clear tuckered out.”
Wordlessly and a little reluctantly, the Bob-Whites followed, walking the long length of the tow back to the nose of the Catfish Princess.
“Thanks, Paul!” they shouted as the Louisiana boy, Deena, and the other deckhands went down to the crew’s quarters.
“We’ll walk you to your door,” Jim told the girls. “Let me have the key, Trixie. I’ll open it for you.... Say, it’s already open!” He snapped on the light. “Hey, what’s going on in here? Everything’s a terrible mess. I know you girls never left it like this!”
Stowaway ● 6
BEWILDERED, TRIXIE and Honey stood at the door. Everything in the room had been overturned. Bureau drawers were upended, and bedclothing was torn from the bunks. Their cries brought Mrs. Aguilera running from next door. Lights clicked on to illuminate the semidarkness of the corridor. Mr. Aguilera joined his wife.
“A thief’s been here!” Trixie cried. “Call Captain Martin!”
As she spoke, the lights went
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