These were the places of resort at their idle hours of ahardy throng of fishermen in red baize shirts， oilclothtrousers and boots of brown leather covering the wholeleg—true seven-league boots， but fitter to wade the oceanthan walk the earth. The wearers seemed amphibious， asif they did but creep out of salt water to sun themselves；nor would it have been wonderful to see their lower limbscovered with clusters of little shellfish such as cling torocks and old ship-timber over which the tide ebbs andflows. When their fleet of boats was weather-bound， thebutchers raised their price， and the spit was busier thanthe frying-pan； for this was a place of fish， and knownas such to all the country round about. The very air wasfishy， being perfumed with dead sculpins， hard-heads anddogfish strewn plentifully on the beach. You see， children，the village is but little changed since your mother and Iwere young.
How like a dream it was when I bent over a pool ofwater one pleasant morning and saw that the ocean haddashed its spray over me and made me a fisherman！ Therewas the tarpaulin， the baize shirt， the oilcloth trousersand seven-league boots， and there my own features， but soreddened with sunburn and sea-breezes that methought Ihad another face， and on other shoulders too. The seagullsand the loons and I had now all one trade： we skimmedthe crested waves and sought our prey beneath them， theman with as keen enjoyment as the birds. Always whenthe east grew purple I launched my dory， my little flatbottomedskiff， and rowed cross-handed to Point Ledge，the Middle Ledge， or perhaps beyond Egg Rock； often，too， did I anchor off Dread Ledge—a spot of peril to shipsunpiloted—and sometimes spread an adventurous sail andtracked across the bay to South Shore， casting my lines insight of Scituate. Ere nightfall I hauled my skiff high anddry on the beach， laden with red rock-cod or the whitebelliedones of deep water， haddock bearing the blackmarks of St. Peter’s fingers near the gills， the long-beardedhake whose liver holds oil enough for a midnight lamp，and now and then a mighty halibut with a back broad asmy boat. In the autumn I toled and caught those lovelyfish the mackerel. When the wind was high， when thewhale-boats anchored off the Point nodded their slendermasts at each other and the dories pitched and tossed inthe surf， when Nahant Beach was thundering three milesoff and the spray broke a hundred feet in the air round thedistant base of Egg Rock， when the brimful and boisteroussea threatened to tumble over the street of our village，—then I made a holiday on shore.
Many such a day did I sit snugly in Mr. Bartlett’s store，attentive to the yarns of Uncle Parker—uncle to thewhole village by right of seniority， but of Southern blood，with no kindred in New England. His figure is before menow enthroned upon a mackerel-barrel—a lean old manof great height， but bent with years and twisted into anuncouth shape by seven broken limbs； furrowed， also，and weatherworn， as if every gale for the better part of acentury had caught him somewhere on the sea. He lookedlike a harbinger of tempest—a shipmate of the FlyingDutchman. After innumerable voyages aboard men-of-warand merchantmen， fishing-schooners and chebacco-boats，the old salt had become master of a hand-cart， which hedaily trundled about the vicinity， and sometimes blewhis fish-horn through the streets of Salem. One of UncleParker’s eyes had been blown out with gunpowder， and theother did but glimmer in its socket. Turning it upward ashe spoke， it was his delight to tell of cruises against theFrench and battles with his own shipmates， when he andan antagonist used to be seated astride of a sailor’s chest，each fastened down by a spike-nail through his trousers，and there to fight it out. Sometimes he expatiated on thedelicious flavor of the hagden， a greasy and goose-like fowlwhich the sailors catch with hook and line on the GrandBanks. He dwelt with rapture on an interminable winterat the Isle of Sables， where he had gladdened himself amidpolar snows with the rum and sugar saved from the wreckof a West India schooner. And wrathfully did he shakehis fist as he related how a party of Cape Cod men hadrobbed him and his companions of their lawful spoils andsailed away with every keg of old Jamaica， leaving him nota drop to drown his sorrow. Villains they were， and of thatwicked brotherhood who are said to tie lanterns to horses’
tails to mislead the mariner along the dangerous shores ofthe Cape.
Even now I seem to see the group of fishermen withthat old salt in the midst. One fellow sits on the counter，a second bestrides an oil-barrel， a third lolls at his lengthon a parcel of new cod-lines， and another has plantedthe tarry seat of his trousers on a heap of salt which willshortly be sprinkled over a lot of fish. They are a likelyset of men. Some have voyaged to the East Indies orthe Pacific， and most of them have sailed in Marbleheadschooners to Newfoundland； a few have been no fartherthan the Middle Banks， and one or two have always fishedalong the shore； but， as Uncle Parker used to say， theyhave all been christened in salt water and know more thanmen ever learn in the bushes. A curious figure， by wayof contrast， is a fish-dealer from far up-country listeningwith eyes wide open to narratives that might startleSinbad the Sailor. Be it well with you， my brethren！ Ye areall gone—some to your graves ashore and others to thedepths of ocean—but my faith is strong that ye are happy；for whenever I behold your forms， whether in dream orvision， each departed friend is puffing his long nine， and amug of the right blackstrap goes round from lip to lip.
But where was the mermaid in those delightful times？
