All my days have I watched it and listened to it, and I know it well. Blue, green, gray, white or black smooth, ruffled, or mountainous that ocean is not silent. And I have read more of these things, and of many things besides, in the books men gave me when I was young and filled with wonder.īut more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean. The old captains of the sea came often to my grandfather and told him of these things which in turn he told to my father, and my father told to me in the long autumn evenings when the wind howled eerily from the East. In the days of my grandfather there were many in the days of my father not so many and now there are so few that I sometimes feel strangely alone, as though I were the last man on our planet.įrom far shores came those white-sailed argosies of old from far Eastern shores where warm suns shine and sweet odors linger about strange gardens and gay temples. Past that beacon for a century have swept the majestic barques of the seven seas. Far from the shore stands the gray lighthouse, above sunken slimy rocks that are seen when the tide is low, but unseen when the tide is high. I am Basil Elton, keeper of the North Point light that my father and grandfather kept before me.
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