A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

wording of the resulting obituary: “SHOT WITH A ROCK,

ON A RAFT.” There would be no poetry written about it.

None COULD be written about it. Example:

NOT by war’s shock, or war’s shaft,–SHOT, with a rock,

on a raft.

No poet who valued his reputation would touch such a

theme as that. I should be distinguished as the only

“distinguished dead” who went down to the grave unsonneted,

in 1878.

But we escaped, and I have never regretted it.

The last blast was peculiarly strong one, and after

the small rubbish was done raining around us and we

were just going to shake hands over our deliverance,

a later and larger stone came down amongst our little

group of pedestrians and wrecked an umbrella. It did

no other harm, but we took to the water just the same.

It seems that the heavy work in the quarries and the

new railway gradings is done mainly by Italians.

That was a revelation. We have the notion in our country

that Italians never do heavy work at all, but confine

themselves to the lighter arts, like organ-grinding,

operatic singing, and assassination. We have blundered,

that is plain.

All along the river, near every village, we saw little

station-houses for the future railway. They were

finished and waiting for the rails and business.

They were as trim and snug and pretty as they could be.

They were always of brick or stone; they were of graceful

shape, they had vines and flowers about them already,

and around them the grass was bright and green,

and showed that it was carefully looked after. They were

a decoration to the beautiful landscape, not an offense.

Wherever one saw a pile of gravel or a pile of broken stone,

it was always heaped as trimly and exactly as a new grave

or a stack of cannon-balls; nothing about those stations

or along the railroad or the wagon-road was allowed

to look shabby or be unornamental. The keeping a country

in such beautiful order as Germany exhibits, has a wise

practical side to it, too, for it keeps thousands of people

in work and bread who would otherwise be idle and mischievous.

As the night shut down, the captain wanted to tie up,

but I thought maybe we might make Hirschhorn, so we went on.

Presently the sky became overcast, and the captain came

aft looking uneasy. He cast his eye aloft, then shook

his head, and said it was coming on to blow. My party

wanted to land at once–therefore I wanted to go on.

The captain said we ought to shorten sail anyway,

out of common prudence. Consequently, the larboard watch

was ordered to lay in his pole. It grew quite dark,

now, and the wind began to rise. It wailed through

the swaying branches of the trees, and swept our decks

in fitful gusts. Things were taking on an ugly look.

The captain shouted to the steersman on the forward

log:

“How’s she landing?”

The answer came faint and hoarse from far forward:

“Nor’-east-and-by-nor’–east-by-east, half-east, sir.”

“Let her go off a point!”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

“What water have you got?”

“Shoal, sir. Two foot large, on the stabboard,

two and a half scant on the labboard!”

“Let her go off another point!”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

“Forward, men, all of you! Lively, now! Stand by to crowd

her round the weather corner!”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

Then followed a wild running and trampling and hoarse shouting,

but the forms of the men were lost in the darkness and

the sounds were distorted and confused by the roaring

of the wind through the shingle-bundles. By this time

the sea was running inches high, and threatening every

moment to engulf the frail bark. Now came the mate,

hurrying aft, and said, close to the captain’s ear,

in a low, agitated voice:

“Prepare for the worst, sir–we have sprung a leak!”

“Heavens! where?”

“Right aft the second row of logs.”

“Nothing but a miracle can save us! Don’t let the men know,

or there will be a panic and mutiny! Lay her in shore

and stand by to jump with the stern-line the moment

she touches. Gentlemen, I must look to you to second