A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
To Our Readers.
From the frozen north, past the past the smiling shores of the lakes, brilliant in silvery moonlight Island of Destiny,—where so oft I have lingered in great luxurious lakes, brilliant in silvery moonlight, slept on the bosoms of its singing rivers, and shrieked in wild freedom o'er its verdant hills,—far o'er the broad Atlantic, on adventurous wing,—the leader of my flock,—I have flown, to cheer you on your weary way with my homely notes. Ill natured people may incline to call this cackling; but I scorn the insinuation. When the notes of a goose—a mere tame slave of a creature—saved the Capitol of mighty Rome, was that cackling? Ans(w)er! Not that I mean to say that a wild goose has not a privilege to cackle sometimes,—for instance after having made a lay, and on many other legitimate occasions, of all which I intend to avail myself.
I’ve dipped my wings in the emerald spray of Erin’s waters, scanned the pathless Ocean’s waifs on my way hitherward, and with retrospective eye, have contemplated the land of pilgrimage and pride of the "Wild Geese" of other days,—to bring your memories of home and friends, of wives and sweethearts, and of scents and songs of fatherland, ever dear to the wanderer.
I will aim to console you for the past, to cheer you for the present, and to strengthen you for the future. But it beseems not so shy a Bird to promise too much, nor must I flatter myself that I shall be as welcome to you as one of more melodious throat or gaudier plumage; yet welcome I trust shall be here where all else is strange, and that each new weekly visitant may be still more welcome,—welcome not alone for the news it brings to keep your memories green, but also that it may prove of interest to all to watch the changing flight of the flock, and read the mystic story they trace as they pass on their airy flight to the shores of that far, strange land of our destined exile.
