| Author: | Julian Leonard Street | ISBN: | 9781465622440 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Julian Leonard Street |
| ISBN: | 9781465622440 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
You lean, in a dazed way, upon the rail, turning on maudlin grins and waving your cap at no one in particular, until the crowd becomes a moving blur upon the dock-end. The liner's nose points down the river; gentle vibrations tell you she is under way; small craft dip flags and toot as they go by; the man-made mountain of Manhattan's office buildings drops astern; the statue of Liberty, the shores of Staten Island, the flat back of Sandy Hook run past as though wound on rollers; the pilot goes over the side with a bag of farewell letters; the white yacht which has followed down the bay blows a parting blast, dips her ensign, and swings in a wide circle toward New York; the pursuing tug comes up and puts a tardy passenger aboard. Then, suddenly, like a sleep-walking dragon that wakes up, the liner shakes herself; her propellers lash the sea to suds; a wedge-shaped wake spreads out behind her, and the voyage is on in earnest. Reno, Roosevelt, Trusts, Wall Street, High Buildings, High Tariff, High Cost of Living, Graft, Yellow Journals, Family Hotels, the Six Best Sellers, the Sixty Worst Writers, the Four Hundred, the Hundred Million, all the things which go to make home sweet, lie astern, enveloped in the haze at the horizon. You are on the sea at last!—the vast and tireless sea which has been the inspiration of painter, poet, and pirate; the cradle of Columbus, Nelson, Paul Jones, Dewey, Hobson, and Annette Kellerman! What is there like the sea? What is there like the free swing of a gallant ship breasting the Atlantic? Nothing! Let's sit down. No, I don't want to go and get my coat. I'm not so terribly cold yet, and my state-room smells of rubber and fresh paint. I like it better up here in the air, don't you? I'm very fond of the fresh air. I really adore it. No, it doesn't always give me a good colour. Not always. If I'm pale it is only because I sat up late last night at that farewell dinner. Perhaps I ate too much. Let's just stay here quietly in our deckchairs and watch the people. But, goodness! How they've changed! Where are all those pretty, fashionable women who were on deck before we sailed? Where, for instance, is the adorable blonde with the seal coat, orchids, low shoes, silk stockings, and cough? A certain cynical friend of mine would answer this inquiry by declaring that all the attractive women go ashore, having only come to see their homely relatives and friends depart. But I don't think so. I believe the pretty ones are here, though in seclusion or disguise.
You lean, in a dazed way, upon the rail, turning on maudlin grins and waving your cap at no one in particular, until the crowd becomes a moving blur upon the dock-end. The liner's nose points down the river; gentle vibrations tell you she is under way; small craft dip flags and toot as they go by; the man-made mountain of Manhattan's office buildings drops astern; the statue of Liberty, the shores of Staten Island, the flat back of Sandy Hook run past as though wound on rollers; the pilot goes over the side with a bag of farewell letters; the white yacht which has followed down the bay blows a parting blast, dips her ensign, and swings in a wide circle toward New York; the pursuing tug comes up and puts a tardy passenger aboard. Then, suddenly, like a sleep-walking dragon that wakes up, the liner shakes herself; her propellers lash the sea to suds; a wedge-shaped wake spreads out behind her, and the voyage is on in earnest. Reno, Roosevelt, Trusts, Wall Street, High Buildings, High Tariff, High Cost of Living, Graft, Yellow Journals, Family Hotels, the Six Best Sellers, the Sixty Worst Writers, the Four Hundred, the Hundred Million, all the things which go to make home sweet, lie astern, enveloped in the haze at the horizon. You are on the sea at last!—the vast and tireless sea which has been the inspiration of painter, poet, and pirate; the cradle of Columbus, Nelson, Paul Jones, Dewey, Hobson, and Annette Kellerman! What is there like the sea? What is there like the free swing of a gallant ship breasting the Atlantic? Nothing! Let's sit down. No, I don't want to go and get my coat. I'm not so terribly cold yet, and my state-room smells of rubber and fresh paint. I like it better up here in the air, don't you? I'm very fond of the fresh air. I really adore it. No, it doesn't always give me a good colour. Not always. If I'm pale it is only because I sat up late last night at that farewell dinner. Perhaps I ate too much. Let's just stay here quietly in our deckchairs and watch the people. But, goodness! How they've changed! Where are all those pretty, fashionable women who were on deck before we sailed? Where, for instance, is the adorable blonde with the seal coat, orchids, low shoes, silk stockings, and cough? A certain cynical friend of mine would answer this inquiry by declaring that all the attractive women go ashore, having only come to see their homely relatives and friends depart. But I don't think so. I believe the pretty ones are here, though in seclusion or disguise.
