The Daughter of the Storage. Howells William Dean

      It was against the law, in such case made and provided,

      Of the United States, but by the good will of the pilots

      That we would some of us climb to the pilot-house after our breakfast

      For a morning smoke, and find ourselves seats on the benching

      Under the windows, or in the worn-smooth arm-chairs. The pilot,

      Which one it was did not matter, would tilt his head round and say, "All right!"

      When he had seen who we were, and begin, or go on as from stopping

      In the midst of talk that was leading up to a story,

      Just before we came in, and the story, begun or beginning,

      Always began or ended with some one, or something or other,Having to do with the river. If one left the wheel to the other,

      Going off watch, he would say to his partner standing behind him

      With his hands stretched out for the spokes that were not given up yet,

      "Captain, you can tell them the thing I was going to tell them

      Better than I could, I reckon," and then the other would answer,

      "Well, I don't know as I feel so sure of that, captain," and having

      Recognized each other so by that courtesy title of captain

      Never officially failed of without offense among pilots,

      One would subside into Jim and into Jerry the other.

      It was on these terms, at least, Captain Dunn relieved Captain Davis

      When we had settled ourselves one day to listen in comfort,

      After some psychological subtleties we had indulged in at breakfast

      Touching that weird experience every one knows when the senses

      Juggle the points of the compass out of true orientation,

      Changing the North to the South, and the East to the West. "Why, Jerry, what was it

      You was going to tell them?" "Oh, never you mind what it was, Jim.

      You tell them something else," and so Captain Davis submitted,

      While Captain Dunn, with a laugh, got away beyond reach of his protest.

      Then Captain Davis, with fitting, deprecatory preamble,

      Launched himself on a story that promised to be all a story

      Could be expected to be, when one of those women – you know them —

      Who interrupt on any occasion or none, interrupted,

      Pointed her hand, and asked, "Oh, what is that island there, captain?"

      "That one, ma'am?" He gave her the name, and then the woman persisted,

      "Don't say you know them all by sight!" "Yes, by sight or by feeling."

      "What do you mean by feeling?" "Why, just that by daylight we see them,

      And in the dark it's like as if somehow we felt them, I reckon.

      Every foot of the channel and change in it, wash-out and cave-in,

      Every bend and turn of it, every sand-bar and landmark,

      Every island, of course, we have got to see them, or feel them."

      "But if you don't?" "But we've got to." "But aren't you ever mistaken?"

      "Never the second time." "Now, what do you mean, Captain Davis?

      Never the second time." "Well, let me tell you a story.

      It's not the one I begun, but that island you asked about yonder

      Puts me in mind of it, happens to be the place where it happened,

      Three years ago. I suppose no man ever knew the Ohio

      Better than Captain Dunlevy, if any one else knew it like him.

      Man and boy he had been pretty much his whole life on the river:

      Cabin-boy first on a keelboat before the day of the steamboats,

      Back in the pioneer times; and watchman then on a steamboat;

      Then second mate, and then mate, and then pilot and captain and owner —

      But he was proudest, I reckon, of being about the best pilot

      On the Ohio. He knew it as well as he knew his own Bible,

      And I don't hardly believe that ever Captain Dunlevy

      Let a single day go by without reading a chapter."

      While the pilot went on with his talk, and in regular, rhythmical motion

      Swayed from one side to the other before his wheel, and we listened,

      Certain typical facts of the picturesque life of the river

      Won their way to our consciousness as without help of our senses.

      It was along about the beginning of March, but already

      In the sleepy sunshine the budding maples and willows,

      Where they waded out in the shallow wash of the freshet,

      Showed the dull red and the yellow green of their blossoms and catkins,

      And in their tops the foremost flocks of blackbirds debated

      As to which they should colonize first. The indolent house-boats

      Loafing along the shore, sent up in silvery spirals

      Out of their kitchen pipes the smoke of their casual breakfasts.

      Once a wide tow of coal-barges, loaded clear down to the gunwales,

      Gave us the slack of the current, with proper formalities shouted

      By the hoarse-throated stern-wheeler that pushed the black barges before her,

      And as she passed us poured a foamy cascade from her paddles.

      Then, as a raft of logs, which the spread of the barges had hidden,

      River-wide, weltered in sight, with a sudden jump forward the pilot

      Dropped his whole weight on the spokes of the wheel just in time to escape it.

      "Always give those fellows," he joked, "all the leeway they ask for;

      Worst kind of thing on the river you want your boat to run into.

      Where had I got about Captain Dunlevy? Oh yes, I remember.

      Well, when the railroads