A man with a soul so dead as that would be taking part in a
funeral, not in a sea voyage. Upon your lips a word hangs poised.
What a precious sound it has, what new meanings it has acquired!
There are words in our language which are singular and yet sound
plural, such as politics and whereabouts; there are words which
are plural and yet sound singular, such as Brigham Young, and there
are words which convey their exact significance by their very
sound. They need no word-chandlers, no adjective-smiths to dress
them up in the fine feathers of fancy phrasing. They stand on
their own merits. You think of one such word--a short, sweet word
of but four letters. You speak that word reverently, lovingly,
caressingly.
Nearer and nearer draws that blessed dark blue strip. Nantucket
light is behind us. Long Island shoulders up alongside. Trunks
accumulate in gangways; so do stewards and other functionaries.
You have been figuring upon the tips which you will bestow upon
them at parting; so have they. It will be hours yet before we
land. Indeed, if the fog thickens, we may not get in before
to-morrow, yet people run about exchanging good-byes and swapping
visiting cards and promising one another they will meet again.
I think it is reckless for people to trifle with their luck that
way.
Forward, on the lower deck, the immigrants cluster, chattering a
magpie chorus in many tongues.
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