mission. p. 66 Last month I came to a table round Which cover’d, to my surprise, is, (Whilst a critical crowd collects around,) With chips of all lengths and sizes: And I knew I’d found the last piece of wood; And back, to my former station, My spirit crossed the Atlantic flood To begin a new transformation. So I laid the glimpses that I had had Of the motley life of this nation Upon this table—or good or bad— For the general delectation. p. 67TRANSFORMATION. LITTLE SEAL-SKIN. p. 67 LITTLE SEAL-SKIN. The fisherman walked up the hill, His boat lay on the sand, His net was on his shoulder still, His home a mile inland. And as he walk’d among the whin He saw a little white seal-skin, Which he took up in his hand. Then “How,” said he, “can this thing be? A seal-skin, and no seal within?” Thus pondered he, Partly in fear, Till he remember’d what he’d heard Of creatures in the sea,— Sea-men and women, who are stirred One day in every year To drop their seal-skins on the sand, To leave the sea, and seek the land For twelve long hours, Playing about in sweet sunshine, Among the corn-fields, with corn-flowers, Wild roses, and woodbine: Till night comes on, and then they flit Adown the fields, and sit Upon the shore and put their seal-skins on, And slip into the sea, and they are gone. p. 68The fisherman strok’d the fur Of the little white seal-skin, Soft as silk, and white as snow; And he said to himself, “I know That some little sea-woman lived in This seal-skin, perhaps not long ago. I wonder what has become of her! And why she left this on the whin, Instead of slipping it on again When all the little sea-women and men Went hurrying down to the sea! Ah! well, she never meant It for me, That I should take it, but I will, Home to my house on the hill,” Said the fisherman; and home he went. The p. 68 The Fisher dozed before his fire, The night was cold outside, The bright full moon was rising higher Above the swelling tide, And the wind brought the sound of breakers nigher, Even to the hill side; When suddenly Something broke at the cottage door, Like the plash Of a little wave on a pebbly shore; And as water frets in the backward drain Of the wave, seeming to fall in pain, There came a wailing after the plash.— The fisherman woke, and said, “Is it rain?” Then he rose from his seat And open’d his door a little way, But soon shut it again p. 69With a kind of awe; For the
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