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familiar sound, which I was able to identify almost instantly as the voice of Darius Doane. But what were those singular sentiments to which, in that peaceful corner of woodland, it was giving utterance?
“An’ as ter ketch de gale
Roun’ weered de flappin’ sail,
‘Deat’!’ was de helmsman’s hail,
‘Deat’ widout kerworter!’
Midships wid irn keel
Steruck we her ribs er steel;
Down her berlack huck did reel
T’rough de berlack worter!”
My experience of Darius had taught me to expect many things of him, but not this — not “The Skeleton in Armor,” declaimed, with something of rude eloquence, at high noon in the heart of the forest primeval! I stood as if chained to the spot, while the poem went on and on, until the concluding lines were reached:
