Read Chapter II. of Wyandotte, free online book, by James Fenimore Cooper, on

  All things are new ­the buds, the leaves,
  That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest,
  And even the nest beneath the eaves ­
  There are no birds in last year’s nest.


“I have good news for you, Wilhelmina,” cried the captain, coming into the parlour where his wife used to sit and knit or sew quite half the day, and speaking with a bright face, and in a cheerful voice ­“Here is a letter from my excellent old colonel; and Bob’s affair is all settled and agreed on.  He is to leave school next week, and to put on His Majesty’s livery the week after.”

Mrs. Willoughby smiled, and yet two or three tears followed each other down her cheeks, even while she smiled.  The first was produced by pleasure at hearing that her son had got an ensigncy in the 60th, or Royal Americans; and the last was a tribute paid to nature; a mother’s fears at consigning an only boy to the profession of arms.

“I am rejoiced, Willoughby,” she said, “because you rejoice, and I know that Robert will be delighted at possessing the king’s commission; but, he is very young to be sent into the dangers of battle and the camp!”

“I was younger, when I actually went into battle, for then it was war; now, we have a peace that promises to be endless, and Bob will have abundance of time to cultivate a beard before he smells gunpowder.  As for myself” ­he added in a half-regretful manner, for old habits and opinions would occasionally cross his mind ­“as for myself, the cultivation of turnips must be my future occupation.  Well, the bit of parchment is sold, Bob has got his in its place, while the difference in price is in my pocket, and no more need be said ­and here come our dear girls, Wilhelmina, to prevent any regrets.  The father of two such daughters ought, at least, to be happy.”

At this instant, Beulah and Maud Willoughby, (for so the adopted child was called as well as the real), entered the room, having taken the lodgings of their parents, in a morning walk, on which they were regularly sent by the mistress of the boarding-school, in which they were receiving what was then thought to be a first-rate American female education.  And much reason had their fond parents to be proud of them!  Beulah, the eldest, was just eleven, while her sister was eighteen months younger.  The first had a staid, and yet a cheerful look; but her cheeks were blooming, her eyes bright, and her smile sweet.  Maud, the adopted one, however, had already the sunny countenance of an angel, with quite as much of the appearance of health as her sister; her face had more finesse, her looks more intelligence, her playfulness more feeling, her smile more tenderness, at times; at others, more meaning.  It is scarcely necessary to say that both had that delicacy of outline which seems almost inseparable from the female form in this country.  What was, perhaps, more usual in that day among persons of their class than it is in our own, each spoke her own language with an even graceful utterance, and a faultless accuracy of pronunciation, equally removed from effort and provincialisms.  As the Dutch was in very common use then, at Albany, and most females of Dutch origin had a slight touch of their mother tongue in their enunciation of English, this purity of dialect in the two girls was to be ascribed to the fact that their father was an Englishman by birth; their mother an American of purely English origin, though named after a Dutch god-mother; and the head of the school in which they had now been three years, was a native of London, and a lady by habits and education.

“Now, Maud,” cried the captain, after he had kissed the forehead, eyes and cheeks of his smiling little favourite ­“Now, Maud, I will set you to guess what good news I have for you and Beulah.”

“You and mother don’t mean to go to that bad Beave Manor this summer, as some call the ugly pond?” answered the child, quick as lightning.

“That is kind of you, my darling; more kind than prudent; but you are not right.”

“Try Beulah, now,” interrupted the mother, who, while she too doted on her youngest child, had an increasing respect for the greater solidity and better judgment of her sister:  “let us hear Beulah’s guess.”

“It is something about my brother, I know by mother’s eyes,” answered the eldest girl, looking inquiringly into Mrs. Willoughby’s face.

“Oh! yes,” cried Maud, beginning to jump about the room, until she ended her saltations in her father’s arms ­“Bob has got his commission! ­I know it all well enough, now ­I would not thank you to tell me ­I know it all now ­dear Bob, how he will laugh! and how happy I am!”

“Is it so, mother?” asked Beulah, anxiously, and without even a smile.

“Maud is right; Bob is an ensign ­or, will be one, in a day or two.  You do not seem pleased, my child?”

“I wish Robert were not a soldier, mother.  Now he will be always away, and we shall never see him; then he may be obliged to fight, and who knows how unhappy it may make him?”

Beulah thought more of her brother than she did of herself; and, sooth to say, her mother had many of the child’s misgivings.  With Maud it was altogether different:  she saw only the bright side of the picture; Bob gay and brilliant, his face covered with smiles, his appearance admired himself, and of course his sisters, happy.  Captain Willoughby sympathized altogether with his pet.  Accustomed to arms, he rejoiced that a career in which he had partially failed ­this he did not conceal from himself or his wife ­that this same career had opened, as he trusted, with better auspices on his only son.  He covered Maud with kisses, and then rushed from the house, finding his heart too full to run the risk of being unmanned in the presence of females.

A week later, availing themselves of one of the last falls of snow of the season, captain Willoughby and his wife left Albany for the Knoll.  The leave-taking was tender, and to the parents bitter; though after all, it was known that little more than a hundred miles would separate them from their beloved daughters.  Fifty of these miles, however, were absolutely wilderness; and to achieve them, quite a hundred of tangled forest, or of difficult navigation, were to be passed.  The communications would be at considerable intervals, and difficult.  Still they might be held, and the anxious mother left many injunctions with Mrs. Waring, the head of the school, in relation to the health of her daughters, and the manner in which she was to be sent for, in the event of any serious illness.

Mrs. Willoughby had often overcome, as she fancied, the difficulties of a wilderness, in the company of her husband.  It is the fashion highly to extol Napoleon’s passage of the Alps, simply in reference to its physical obstacles.  There never was a brigade moved twenty-four hours into the American wilds, that had not greater embarrassments of this nature to overcome, unless in those cases in which favourable river navigation has offered its facilities.  Still, time and necessity had made a sort of military ways to all the more important frontier points occupied by the British garrisons, and the experience of Mrs. Willoughby had not hitherto been of the severe character of that she was now compelled to undergo.

The first fifty miles were passed over in a sleigh, in a few hours, and with little or no personal fatigue.  This brought the travellers to a Dutch inn on the Mohawk, where the captain had often made his halts, and whither he had from time to time, sent his advanced parties in the course of the winter and spring.  Here a jumper was found prepared to receive Mrs. Willoughby; and the horse being led by the captain himself, a passage through the forest was effected as far as the head of the Otsego.  The distance being about twelve miles, it required two days for its performance.  As the settlements extended south from the Mohawk a few miles, the first night was passed in a log cabin, on the extreme verge of civilization, if civilization it could be called, and the remaining eight miles were got over in the course of the succeeding day.  This was more than would probably have been achieved in the virgin forest, and under the circumstances, had not so many of the captain’s people passed over the same ground, going and returning, thereby learning how to avoid the greatest difficulties of the route, and here and there constructing a rude bridge.  They had also blazed the trees, shortening the road by pointing out its true direction.

At the head of the Otsego, our adventurers were fairly in the wilderness.  Huts had been built to receive the travellers, and here the whole party assembled, in readiness to make a fresh start in company.  It consisted of more than a dozen persons, in all; the black domestics of the family being present, as well as several mechanics whom Captain Willoughby had employed to carry on his improvements.  The men sent in advance had not been idle, any more than those left at the Hutted Knoll.  They had built three or four skiffs, one small batteau, and a couple of canoes.  These were all in the water, in waiting for the disappearance of the ice; which was now reduced to a mass of stalactites in form, greenish and sombre in hue, as they floated in a body, but clear and bright when separated and exposed to the sun.  The south winds began to prevail, and the shore was glittering with the fast-melting piles of the frozen fluid, though it would have been vain yet to attempt a passage through it.

The Otsego is a sheet that we have taken more than one occasion to describe, and the picture it then presented, amidst its frame of mountains, will readily be imagined by most of our readers.  In 1765, no sign of a settlement was visible on its shores; few of the grants of land in that vicinity extending back so far.  Still the spot began to be known, and hunters had been in the habit of frequenting its bosom and its shores, for the last twenty years or more Not a vestige of their presence, however, was to be seen from the huts of the captain; but Mrs. Willoughby assured her husband, as she stood leaning on his arm, the morning after her arrival, that never before had she gazed on so eloquent, and yet so pleasing a picture of solitude as that which lay spread before her eyes.

“There is something encouraging and soothing in this bland south wind, too,” she added, “which seems to promise that we shall meet with a beneficent nature, in the spot to which we are going.  The south airs of spring, to me are always filled with promise.”

“And justly, love; for they are the harbingers of a renewed vegetation.  If the wind increase, as I think it may, we shall see this chilling sheet of ice succeeded by the more cheerful view of water.  It is in this way, that all these lakes open their bosoms in April.”

Captain Willoughby did not know it, while speaking, but, at that moment, quite two miles of the lower, or southern end of the lake, was clear, and the opening giving a sweep to the breeze, the latter was already driving the sheets of ice before it, towards the head, at a rate of quite a mile in the hour.  Just then, an Irishman, named Michael O’Hearn, who had recently arrived in America, and whom the captain had hired as a servant of all work, came rushing up to his master, and opened his teeming thoughts, with an earnestness of manner, and a confusion of rhetoric, that were equally characteristic of the man and of a portion of his nation.

“Is it journeying south, or to the other end of this bit of wather, or ice, that yer honour is thinking of?” he cried “Well, and there’ll be room for us all, and to spare; for divil a bir-r-d will be left in that quarter by night, or forenent twelve o’clock either, calculating by the clock, if one had such a thing; as a body might say.”

As this was said not only vehemently, but with an accent that defies imitation with the pen, Mrs. Willoughby was quite at a loss to get a clue to the idea; but, her husband, more accustomed to men of Mike’s class, was sufficiently lucky to comprehend what he was at.

“You mean the pigeons, Mike, I suppose,” the captain answered, good-humouredly.  “There are certainly a goodly number of them; and I dare say our hunters will bring us in some, for dinner.  It is a certain sign that the winter is gone, when birds and beasts follow their instincts, in this manner.  Where are you from, Mike?”

“County Leitrim, yer honour,” answered the other, touching his cap.

“Ay, that one may guess,” said the captain, smiling, ’but where last?”

“From looking at the bir-r-ds, sir! ­Och!  It’s a sight that will do madam good, and contains a sartainty there’ll be room enough made for us, where all these cr’atures came from.  I’m thinking, yer honour, if we don’t ate them, they’ll be wanting to ate us.  What a power of them, counting big and little; though they ’re all of a size, just as much as if they had flown through a hole made on purpose to kape them down to a convanient bigness, in body and feathers.”

“Such a flight of pigeons in Ireland, would make a sensation, Mike,” observed the captain, willing to amuse his wife, by drawing out the County Leitrim-man, a little.

“It would make a dinner, yer honour, for every mother’s son of ’em, counting the gur-r-rls, in the bargain!  Such a power of bir-r-ds, would knock down ’praties, in a wonderful degree, and make even butthermilk chape and plenthiful.  Will it be always such abundance with us, down at the Huts, yer honour? or is this sight only a delusion to fill us with hopes that’s never to be satisfied?”

“Pigeons are seldom wanting in this country, Mike, in the spring and autumn; though we have both birds and beasts, in plenty, that are preferable for food.”

“Will it be plentthier than this? ­Well, it’s enough to destroy human appetite, the sight of ’em!  I’d give the half joe I lost among them blackguards in Albany, at their Pauss, as they calls it, jist to let my sisther’s childer have their supper out of one of these flocks, such as they are, betther or no betther.  Och! its pleasant to think of them childer having their will, for once, on such a power of wild, savage bir-r-ds!”

Captain Willoughby smiled at this proof of naïveté in his new domestic, and then led his wife back to the hut; if being time to make some fresh dispositions for the approaching movement.  By noon, it became apparent to those who were waiting such an event, that the lake was opening; and, about the same time, one of the hunters came in from a neighbouring mountain, and reported that he had seen clear water, as near their position as three or four miles.  By this time it was blowing fresh, and the wind, having a clear rake, drove up the honeycomb-looking sheet before it, as the scraper accumulates snow.  When the sun set, the whole north shore was white with piles of glittering icicles; while the bosom of the Otsego, no longer disturbed by the wind, resembled a placid mirror.

Early on the following morning, the whole party embarked.  There was no wind, and men were placed at the paddles and the oars.  Care was taken, on quitting the huts, to close their doors and shutters; for they were to be taverns to cover the heads of many a traveller, in the frequent journeys that were likely to be made, between the Knoll and the settlements.  These stations, then, were of the last importance, and a frontier-man always had the same regard for them, that the mountaineer of the Alps has for his “refuge.”

The passage down the Otsego was the easiest and most agreeable portion of the whole journey.  The day was pleasant, and the oarsmen vigorous, if not very skilful, rendering the movement rapid, and sufficiently direct.  But one drawback occurred to the prosperity of the voyage.  Among the labourers hired by the captain, was a Connecticut man, of the name of Joel Strides, between whom and the County Leitrim-man, there had early commenced a warfare of tricks and petty annoyances; a warfare that was perfectly defensive on the part of O’Hearn, who did little more, in the way of retort, than comment on the long, lank, shapeless figure, and meagre countenance of his enemy.  Joel had not been seen to smile, since he engaged with the captain; though three times had he laughed outright, and each time at the occurrence of some mishap to Michael O’Hearn the fruit of one of his own schemes of annoyance.

On the present occasion, Joel, who had the distribution of such duty, placed Mike in a skiff, by himself, flattering the poor fellow with the credit he would achieve, by rowing a boat to the foot of the lake, without assistance.  He might as well have asked Mike to walk to the outlet on the surface of the water!  This arrangement proceeded from an innate love of mischief in Joel, who had much of the quiet waggery, blended with many of the bad qualities of the men of his peculiar class.  A narrow and conceited selfishness lay at the root of the larger portion of this man’s faults.  As a physical being, he was a perfect labour-saving machine, himself; bringing all the resources of a naturally quick and acute mind to bear on this one end, never doing anything that required a particle more than the exertion and strength that were absolutely necessary to effect his object.  He rowed the skiff in which the captain and his wife had embarked, with his own hands; and, previously to starting, he had selected the best sculls from the other boats, had fitted his twhart with the closest attention to his own ease, and had placed a stretcher for his feet, with an intelligence and knowledge of mechanics, that would have done credit to a Whitehall waterman.  This much proceeded from the predominating principle of his nature, which was, always to have an eye on the interests of Joel Strides; though the effect happened, in this instance, to be beneficial to those he served.

Michael O’Hearn, on the contrary, thought only of the end; and this so intensely, not to so say vehemently, as generally to overlook the means.  Frank, generous, self-devoted, and withal accustomed to get most things wrong-end-foremost, he usually threw away twice the same labour, in effecting a given purpose, that was expended by the Yankee; doing the thing worse, too, besides losing twice the time.  He never paused to think of this, however.  The masther’s boat was to be rowed to the other end of the lake, and, though he had never rowed a boat an inch in his life, he was ready and willing to undertake the job.  “If a certain quantity of work will not do it,” thought Mike, “I’ll try as much ag’in; and the divil is in it, if that won’t sarve the purpose of that little bit of a job.”

Under such circumstances the party started.  Most of the skiffs and canoes went off half an hour before Mrs. Willoughby was ready, and Joel managed to keep Mike for he last, under the pretence of wishing his aid in loading his own boat, with the bed and bedding from the hut.  All was ready, at length, and taking his seat, with a sort of quiet deliberation, Joel said, in his drawling way, “You’ll follow us, Mike, and you can’t be a thousand miles out of the way.”  Then he pulled from the shore with a quiet, steady stroke of the sculls, that sent the skiff ahead with great rapidity, though with much ease to himself.

Michael O’Hearn stood looking at the retiring skiff, in silent admiration, for two or three minutes.  He was quite alone; for all the other boats were already two or three miles on their way, and distance already prevented him from seeing the mischief that was lurking in Joel’s hypocritical eyes.

“Follow yees!” soliloquized Mike ­“The divil burn ye, for a guessing yankee as ye ar’ ­how am I to follow with such legs as the likes of these?  If it wasn’t for the masther and the missus, ra’al jontlemen and ladies they be, I’d turn my back on ye, in the desert, and let ye find that Beaver estate, in yer own disagreeable company.  Ha! ­well, I must thry, and if the boat won’t go, it’ll be no fault of the man that has a good disposition to make it.”

Mike now took his seat on a board that lay across the gunwale of the skiff at a most inconvenient height, placed two sculls in the water, one of which was six inches longer than the other, made a desperate effort, and got his craft fairly afloat.  Now, Michael O’Hearn was not left-handed, and, as usually happens with such men, the inequality between the two limbs was quite marked.  By a sinister accident, too, it happened that the longest oar got into the strongest hand, and there it would have staid to the end of time; before Mike would think of changing it, on that account.  Joel, alone, sat with his face towards the head of the lake, and he alone could see the dilemma in which the county Leitrim-man was placed.  Neither the captain nor his wife thought of looking behind, and the yankee had all the fun to himself.  As for Mike, he succeeded in getting a few rods from the land, when the strong arm and the longer lever asserting their superiority, the skiff began to incline to the westward.  So intense, however, was the poor fellow’s zeal, that he did not discover the change in his course until he had so far turned as to give him a glimpse of his retiring master; then he inferred that all was right, and pulled more leisurely.  The result was, that in about ten minutes, Mike was stopped by the land, the boat touching the north shore again, two or three rods from the very point whence it had started.  The honest fellow got up, looked around him, scratched his head, gazed wistfully after the fast-receding boat of his master, and broke out in another soliloquy.

“Bad luck to them that made ye, ye one-sided thing!” he said, shaking his head reproachfully at the skiff:  “there’s liberty for ye to do as ye ought, and ye’ll not be doing it, just out of contrairiness.  Why the divil can’t ye do like the other skiffs, and go where ye’re wanted, on the road towards thim beavers?  Och, ye’ll be sorry for this, when ye’re left behind, out of sight!”

Then it flashed on Mike’s mind that possibly some article had been left in the hut, and the skiff had come back to look after it; so, up he ran to the captain’s deserted lodge, entered it, was lost to view for a minute, then came in sight again, scratching his head, and renewing his muttering ­“No,” he said, “divil a thing can I see, and it must be pure con_trair_iness!  Perhaps the baste will behave betther next time, so I’ll thry it ag’in, and give it an occasion.  Barring obstinacy, ’t is as good-lookin’ a skiff as the best of them.”

Mike was as good as his word, and gave the skiff as fair an opportunity of behaving itself as was ever offered to a boat.  Seven times did he quit the shore, and as often return to it, gradually working his way towards the western shore, and slightly down the lake.  In this manner, Mike at length got himself so far on the side of the lake, as to present a barrier of land to the evil disposition of his skiff to incline to the westward.  It could go no longer in that direction, at least.

“Divil burn ye,” the honest fellow cried, the perspiration rolling down his face; “I think ye’ll be satisfied without walking out into the forest, where I wish ye war’ with all my heart, amang the threes that made ye!  Now, I’ll see if yer con_trair_y enough to run up a hill.”

Mike next essayed to pull along the shore, in the hope that the sight of the land, and of the overhanging pines and hemlocks, would cure the boat’s propensity to turn in that direction.  It is not necessary to say that his expectations were disappointed, and he finally was reduced to getting out into the water, cool as was the weather, and of wading along the shore, dragging the boat after him.  All this Joel saw before he passed out of sight, but no movement of his muscles let the captain into the secret of the poor Irishman’s strait.

In the meanwhile, the rest of the flotilla, or brigade of boats, as the captain termed them, went prosperously on their way, going from one end of the lake to the other, in the course of three hours.  As one of the party had been over the route several times already, there was no hesitation on the subject of the point to which the boats were to proceed.  They all touched the shore near the stone that is now called the “Otsego Rock,” beneath a steep wooded bank, and quite near to the place where the Susquehannah glanced out of the lake, in a swift current, beneath a high-arched tracery of branches that were not yet clothed with leaves.

Here the question was put as to what had become of Mike.  His skiff was nowhere visible, and the captain felt the necessity of having him looked for, before he proceeded any further.  After a short consultation, a boat manned by two negroes, father and son, named Pliny the elder, and Pliny the younger, or, in common parlance, “old Plin” and “young Plin,” was sent back along the west-shore to hunt him up.  Of course, a hut was immediately prepared for the reception of Mrs. Willoughby, upon the plain that stretches across the valley, at this point.  This was on the site of the present village of Cooperstown, but just twenty years anterior to the commencement of the pretty little shire town that now exists on the spot.

It was night ere the two Plinies appeared towing Mike, as their great namesakes of antiquity might have brought in a Carthaginian galley, in triumph.  The county Leitrim-man had made his way with excessive toil about a league ere he was met, and glad enough was he to see his succour approach.  In that day, the strong antipathy which now exists between the black and the emigrant Irishman was unknown, the competition for household service commencing more than half a century later.  Still, as the negro loved fun constitutionally, and Pliny the younger was somewhat of a wag, Mike did not entirely escape, scot-free.

“Why you drag ’im like ox, Irish Mike?” cried the younger negro ­“why you no row ’im like other folk?”

“Ah ­you’re as bad as the rest of ’em,” growled Mike.  “They tould me Ameriky was a mighty warm country, and war-r-m I find it, sure enough, though the wather isn’t as warm as good whiskey.  Come, ye black divils, and see if ye can coax this contrairy crathure to do as a person wants.”

The negroes soon had Mike in tow, and then they went down the lake merrily, laughing and cracking their jokes, at the Irishman’s expense, after the fashion of their race.  It was fortunate for the Leitrim-man that he was accustomed to ditching, though it may be questioned if the pores of his body closed again that day, so very effectually had they been opened.  When he rejoined his master, not a syllable was said of the mishap, Joel having the prudence to keep his own secret, and even joining Mike in denouncing the bad qualities of the boat.  We will only add here, that a little calculation entered into this trick, Joel perceiving that Mike was a favourite, and wishing to bring him into discredit.

Early the next morning, the captain sent the negroes and Mike down the Susquehannah a mile, to clear away some flood-wood, of which one of the hunters had brought in a report the preceding day.  Two hours later, the boats left the shore, and began to float downward with the current, following the direction of a stream that has obtained its name from its sinuosities.

In a few minutes the boats reached the flood-wood, where, to Joel’s great amusement, Mike and the negroes, the latter having little more calculation than the former, had commenced their operations on the upper side of the raft, piling the logs on one another, with a view to make a passage through the centre.  Of course, there was a halt, the females landing.  Captain Willoughby now cast an eye round him in hesitation, when a knowing look from Joel caught his attention.

“This does not seem to be right,” he said ­“cannot we better if a little?”

“It’s right wrong, captain,” answered Joel, laughing like one who enjoyed other people’s ignorance.  “A sensible crittur’ would begin the work on such a job, at the lower side of the raft.”

“Take the direction, and order things to suit yourself.”

This was just what Joel liked. Head-work before all other work for him, and he set about the duty authoritatively and with promptitude.  After rating the negroes roundly for their stupidity, and laying it on Mike without much delicacy of thought or diction, over the shoulders of the two blacks, he mustered his forces, and began to clear the channel with intelligence and readiness.

Going to the lower side of the jammed flood-wood, he soon succeeded in loosening one or two trees, which floated away, making room for others to follow.  By these means a passage was effected in half an hour, Joel having the prudence to set no more timber in motion than was necessary to his purpose, lest it might choke the stream below.  In this manner the party got through, and, the river being high at that season, by night the travellers were half-way to the mouth of the Unadilla.  The next evening they encamped at the junction of the two streams, making their preparations to ascend the latter the following morning.

The toil of the ascent, however, did not commence, until the boats entered what was called the creek, or the small tributary of the Unadilla, on which the beavers had erected their works, and which ran through the “Manor.”  Here, indeed, the progress was slow and laborious, the rapidity of the current and the shallowness of the water rendering every foot gained a work of exertion and pain.  Perseverance and skill, notwithstanding, prevailed; all the boats reaching the foot of the rapids, or straggling falls, on which the captain had built his mills, about an hour before the sun disappeared.  Here, of course, the boats were left, a rude road having been cut, by means of which the freights were transported on a sledge the remainder of the distance.  Throughout the whole of this trying day, Joel had not only worked head-work, but he had actually exerted himself with his body.  As for Mike, never before had he made such desperate efforts.  He felt all the disgrace of his adventure on the lake, and was disposed to wipe it out by his exploits on the rivers.  Thus Mike was ever loyal to his employer.  He had sold his flesh and blood for money, and a man of his conscience was inclined to give a fair penny’s-worth.  The tractable manner in which the boat had floated down the river, it is true, caused him some surprise, as was shown in his remark to the younger Pliny, on landing.

“This is a curious boat, afther all,” said Pat.  “One time it’s all con_trar_iness, and then ag’in it’s as obliging as one’s own mother.  It followed the day all’s one like a puppy dog, while yon on the big wather there was no more dhriving it than a hog.  Och! it’s a faimale boat, by its whims!”