The Cook County herald. [volume] (Grand Marais, Minn.) 1893-1909, 1899-12-02

E&&YBW Mary Beecroft, his
T4A\> wife; and I, Amos,
@ their son. Brixton
then was not what
Brixton is now; there was more country
about, more fields and trees, though
there are pretty bits to be found there
today, if you search for them. The old
cottage stands there still, mellowed by
age, and prettier by contrast with its
newer fellows that have grown round
about it; but Beecroft, Mariners,
CHEEKY "Yo, heave, no" is no longer
heard within or without it's walls. For
sufficient reason: he rests in another
kind of habitation. His bones lie at
the bottom of the Atlantic But 1,
Amos Beecroft, live there at this day,
surrounded by memorials of Beecroft,
Mariners, love.
Now, if you want me to describe our
cottage, and to describe it briefly, can
do so in one word: Shells. 1t seemed
to be built almost entirely of shells;
they met you whichever way you
turned, whichever way you looked.
About the mantelpiece, on the walls,
in the center of the ceiling Crom which
sometimes one would drop down with
a bang), in frames, under glass shades,
and skirting my mothers work-box
and the looking-glass in her bedroom.
Even the tiny plot of ground in front
of our cottage-the little plot of garden
0ff f,~0v n1 hvy
green wooden palings and a green
wooden gate-even that was decorated
with them. The shells that met your
eye in every corner of the cottage had
been gathered north, south, cast, and
west OF the globe; and, so that there
west, of the globe; and, so that there
should be no mistake as to whose resi-
dence it was, "Beecroft, Mariner" was
woven outside in shells from various
shores, directly above the low window
which looked into our little front par
Tor. 1t may be we'll understood, there
fore, that Beecroft, Mariners, cottage
was pretty we'll known round about. 1t
served, indeed, as a kind of landmark
in the neighborhood, and my father, as
I understand, was looked upon as
character. Not by any means as an
Objectionable character, for everybody
had a smile for him, for the simple
reason, I expect, that he himself had
a smile and good word for everybody.
1t was my greatest delight, as young
ster, to walk by his side through the
Brixton streets, with my little hand
in his big one, and to initiate his walk,
the roll of his body, and the very ex-
preston on his face, to let the people
know that I was Beecroft, Mariners,
son. His shells were my delight as a
boy; and on some of the few evenings
in the year he spent at home with US,
he would take me between his knees,
and tell me stories of the sea in con-
nection with these pets of his.
You, see, my son." he said-he al
ways addressed me thus; and OCCASION
ally my mother took after him-"you
see, my son, when I am away your
mother can't help but think of me.
And why? Because of these shells.
She puts one of 'em to her ear, and she
says, Now I'm on the sea with Bee
croft, Mariner, the father of my boy
She follows me about to different
places; that's how it is. And shells
have different voices. They tell you
almost everything about the sea you'd
like to know. Listen to this" and he
put she'll to my ear. Cant you hear
a storm brewing? And here's the wind
bowling through pitch-black night:
and here's a mermaid singing: and
here's the soft Tapping of the sails as
we lay becalmed, praying for breeze:
and here-shut your eyes, my son
here we are surrounded by great white
ghosts-icebergs, my son, with sea-
voices all about u.s.
I lisened in kind of rapture to such
utterances as these, and saw and heard
in the shells all that my father de-
scribed with rough and eloquent
tongue. If he could have found and
brought home shell large enough for
US all to live in, I believe he would
have been the happiest man alive.
Sitting at home with us one evening
he said, half in jest, half in earnest.
Il should like to be buried in a she'll
coffin, in a grave lined with Shells
Now, it was circumstance to be
superstitiously remembered in after
days, that, as he uttered these words
in the little parlor at Brixton, a she'll
fell from the ceiling and grazed his
hand.
"Oh, my dear? cried my mother,
starting in t1utter.
Beecroft, Mariner, wiped the blood
from his hand with smile, but i'm
mediately afterward gazed at the de-
linquent shell with an air which i'm
piled that it had been guilty of breach
of duty, and ought to be condemned
to walk the plank.
"Oh, my dear!' cried my mother
again; "how can you say such things?"
We'll, but I should like to be buried
IN just such a grave" he said, with
light persistence. Eve must be buried
some time and somewhere, and that's
my fancy s. =.5&5 >
She said nothing in reply; but a
shudder passed through her at the