Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands, And nearer, nearer, full in view, Went shouting through her hollow'd hands: "Courage! we'll get you through!"

Ran to and fro, made cheery signs, Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea, Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian lines Her husband's boat to see.

Cold, cold it was—oh, it was cold! The bitter cold made watching vain: With ice the channel laboring roll'd,— No skiff could stand the strain.

On all that isle, from outer swell To strait between the landings shut, Was never place where man might dwell, Save trapper Becker's hut.

And it was twelve and one and two, And it was three o'clock and more. She call'd: "Come on! there's nought to do, But leap and swim ashore!"

Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear: She waded in the shallow sea; She waved her hands, made signals clear, "Swim! swim, and trust to me!"

"My men," the captain cried, "I'll try: The woman's judgment may be right; For, swim or sink, seven men must die If here we swing to-night."

Far out he mark'd the gathering surge; Across the bar he watch'd it pour, Let go, and on its topmost verge Came riding in to shore.

It struck the breaker's foamy track,— Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd, Went grandly toppling, tumbling back, As loath to flood the world.

There blindly whirling, shorn of strength, The captain drifted, sure to drown; Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length, Like sinking lead went down.

Ah, well for him that on the strand Had Mother Becker waited long! And well for him her grasping hand And grappling arm were strong!

And well for him that wind and sun, And daily toil for scanty gains, Had made such daring blood to run Within such generous veins!

For what to do but plunge and swim? Out on the sinking billow cast, She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him, She found and clutch'd him fast.

She climb'd the reef, she brought him up, She laid him gasping on the sands; Built high the fire and fill'd the cup,— Stood up and waved her hands!

Oh, life is dear! The mate leap'd in. "I know," the captain said, "right well, Not twice can any woman win A soul from yonder hell.

"I'll start and meet him in the wave." "Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you? And I shall have you both to save,— Must work to pull you through!"

But out he went. Up shallow sweeps Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb: The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps, Far, far it blew the foam.

The frozen foam went scudding by,— Before the wind, a seething throng, The waves, the waves came towering high, They flung the mate along.

The waves came towering high and white. They burst in clouds of flying spray: There mate and captain sank from sight, And, clinching, roll'd away.

Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread, Their treacherous paths are deep and blind! But widows twain shall mourn their dead If thou art slow to find.

She sought them near, she sought them far, Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight; With both together up the bar She stagger'd into sight.

Beside the fire her burdens fell: She paus'd the cheering draught to pour, Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well! Come on! swim! swim ashore!"

Sure, life is dear, and men are brave: They came,—they dropp'd from mast and spar; And who but she could breast the wave, And dive beyond the bar?

Dark grew the sky from east to west, And darker, darker grew the world: Each man from off the breaker's crest To gloomier deeps was hurl'd.

And still the gale went shrieking on, And still the wrecking fury grew; And still the woman, worn and wan, Those gates of Death went through,—

As Christ were walking on the waves, And heavenly radiance shone about,— All fearless trod that gulf of graves And bore the sailors out.

Down came the night, but far and bright, Despite the wind and flying foam, The bonfire flamed to give them light To trapper Becker's home.

Oh, safety after wreck is sweet! And sweet is rest in hut or hall: One story Life and Death repeat,— God's mercy over all.

* * * * *

Next day men heard, put out from shore, Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to find Seven gallant fellows sick and sore, A tender nurse and kind;

Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad; Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea, Poor dying, drowning sailors had A better friend than she.

"Billows may tumble, winds may roar, Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch: But never, never, nevermore This deed shall mortal match!"

Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head, She blush'd as girls when lovers woo: "I have not done a thing," she said, "More than I ought to do."

THE END.

Transcriber's notes: Non-ascii diacritical marks represented as follows: ā a macron ă a breve ē e macron ĕ e breve ī i macron ĭ i breve ō o macron ŏ o breve ū u macron ŭ u breve a two dots under a ȧ dot over a