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Adams, F. Colburn (Francis Colburn)

"Our World, Or, the Slaveholder's Daughter"

This latter
place, into which he conducts the nervous man, is lumbered with
boxes, chests, charts, camp-seats, log lines, and rusty quadrants,
and sundry marine relics which only the inveterate coaster could
conceive a use for. But the good wife Molly, whose canny face bears
the wrinkles of some forty summers, and whose round, short figure is
so simply set off with bright plaid frock and apron of gingham
check, in taste well adapted to her humble position, is as clean and
tidy as ever was picture of mine Vrow Vardenstein. Nevertheless,--we
know the reader will join us in the sentiment-that which gave the
air of domestic happiness a completeness hitherto unnoticed, was a
wee responsibility, as seen sprawling and kicking goodnaturedly on
the white pillow of the starboard berth, where its two peering eyes
shone forth as bright as new-polished pearls. The little darling is
just a year old, Dame Hardweather tells us; it's a twin,--the other
died, and, she knows full well, has gone to heaven. Here she takes
the little cherub in her lap, and having made her best courtesy as
Hardweather introduces her to his nervous friend, seats herself on
the locker, and commences suckling it, while he points to the very
place on the larboard side where Clotilda-"Ah! I just caught the
name," he says,--used to sit and sorrow for her child. "And then,"
he continues, "on the quarter-deck she'd go and give such longing
looks back, like as if she wanted to see it; and when she couldn't,
she'd turn away and sigh so.


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