My father was the sort of man who, if wrecked on a desolate island, would find his way home, if he had a jack-knife and could find a tree.

He was a good judge of a boat, but the old clay farm which some calamity made his was an anchor to him.

He was not afraid of a capful of wind, and he never took a back seat at a camp-meeting or a good, old-fashioned revival.
As for myself, the wonderful sea charmed me from the first.

At the age of eight I had already been afloat along with other boys on the bay, with chances greatly in favor of being drowned.

When a lad I filled the important post of cook on a fishing-schooner; but I was not long in the galley, for the crew mutinied at the appearance of my first duff, and "chucked me out" before I had a chance to shine as a culinary artist.