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"At dawn, stout hearts, we shall sail
Into the eye of the sun,
And turn not aside nor pause,
'Till our goal be won.
And though, on a future tide
We meet our end-we shall laugh,
For we fall beside
A proven friend.
"So, casting our gage to fate, And pulling the beard of death,
Let us strongly strive
As we oceanward drive.
For hark what the sea-wind saith:
'Over the waters
Sailing-as a maid to her lover
Adorned as a bride,
To the arms of her betrothed;-
In the bosom of her lord.'
"Aye! Lead your ship over the waters—
A bride to the sea.
Steer her into the smother unafraid,
Leaving behind the land, and the things that be.
Could even so rough a husband
Harm so fair a maid?
"Have you forgotten the singing of wind in the shrouds?
Have you forgotten the sweep of the green, and the challenging clouds,
And the palms, and the promise of beaches where you have been, And the land-breeze, fragrant with odors of gardens unseen?
"Have you forgotten the hope that has led you
Forgotten the dreams that have fled you
For he that follows a shadow upon the sea,
But from the rest of them I drew aside.
For I had seen the rats depart,
Like blood-drops from the vessel's heart-
They shall see visions nevermore
Far on the deep, the ship was winging,
Silvery spray their oars were splashing;
Passed they away to their sought adventure.....
Like a regal cloak, the purpled sea-mist
How often again did they watch the sun sink in the ocean,
In the reeds at my feet was a timid motion
A squeak, and a scurry-a hushed commotion.....
We were safe on the land, the rats and I.
TO A CONTEMPORARY.
You drew a mind, God knows it, to His shame
What are you, though, in truth? A kind of slave
Oscar Fulton Davisson.
HE first time I heard the word "métec" was in the "Club de Constantinople," an admirable institution where the members of the various embassies and consulates forgather at cocktail time. A bronzed young American artillery captain, fresh from a two months' tour of the eastern vilayets of Anatolia, spoke. He was shaking with malaria and from time to time gulped down more Turkish raki than a prudent fellow should tackle.
"They are all 'métecs," he drawled, “every single damn one of them. 'Métecs.' Dirty damn 'métecs'!"
I asked him what a "métec" was.
His reply was prompt and delivered with great vigor:
“A ‘métec' is a man who never washes. He never changes his underclothes. He never opens his window. He is hairy and greasy. He uses perfume. He "
Another took up the Jeremiad—
"A métec,' my boy," he propounded in the best Johnsonian manner, "is an inhabitant of Southeastern Europe, Asia Minor and all points east. There are large colonies of 'métecs' in southern Italy, Spain and northern Africa. They are neither white men nor are they niggers. They are 'métecs'. Turkey contains vast numbers of 'métecs,' but the great 'métec' prototypes are the Greeks and the Armenians. The Armenian is a-'
Up to this time his speech had been characterized by a certain scholarly quality. But he now digressed into a rather intimate and authoritative exposition of the paternity, morality, habits and habitat of the minor nationalities of the Near East. This discussion, I regret to say, is not pertinent, though it was admittedly a masterpiece. Therefore I shall not repeat it.
Every American knows all about Turkey.
Every Turk has a large harem. On every street corner are gathered large crowds, cheering the erotic contortions of beauteous hootchi-kootchi dances. Along the narrow picturesque streets wander camels, laden with spices, silks, Damaskene blades,