The sound of his voice in irate expostulation, mingled with the steady
flow of those serener tones, grew gradually faint in the distance, and I
was left alone with the sepulchral group of young men.
They arose, still maintaining the weighty aspect of those elected to the
hour, and abruptly opened their lips in song.
There was no repression now; the Ark fairly rang with the sonorous
strains of that wild Jubilate.
They sang:--
"Light in the darkness, sailor,
Day is at hand;
See, o'er the foaming billows,
Fair haven stands."
Their voices rolling in at the chorus with the resistless sweep of the
ocean-waves:--
"Pull for the shore, sailor,
Pull for the shore;
Heed not the rolling waves,
But bend to the oar:"
and with a final "Pull for the shore," that sent that imaginary life-boat
bounding high and dry on the strand at the hands of its impulsive crew.
Then they sat down and wiped the perspiration from their faces, which had
become transfigured with a sudden zest and radiance.
I recovered myself sufficiently to express a bewildered sense of pleasure
and gratitude.
"Do you sing, teacher?" asked Harvey Dole, a round-faced youth with an
irrepressible fund of mirth in his eyes, who had broken in on the former
silence with an unguarded little snicker.
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