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Miss Jones was a native of Bloomfield, Ontario County, New York, and was born in October, 1835. She was of old Puritan stock, and her great grandfather was one of the officers who was with Wolfe, on the plains of Abraham. In early childhood she resided at Glen Elgin, near Jordan Village, a short distance from St. Catharines. She wrote the poem of� �Glen Elgin" and other pieces. The verses here given first appeared in the Century Magazine. As long as man shall love to read of the heroism of Ida Lewis and Grace Darling, so long shall all Canadians love to dwell on a heroism far greater than theirs�the unparalleled exploit of good, strong-bodied, simple-minded, warm-hearted Abigail Becker. �R. C.
The wind, the wind, where Erie plunged, Blew, blew, nor'-east from land to land; The wandering schooner dipped and plunged, Long Point was close at hand. Long Point�a swampy island-slant, Where busy in their grassy homes, Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt, And musk-rats build their domes. Where gulls and eagles rest at need, Where either side, by lake or sound, Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed, And mallard ducks abound. The lowering night shut out the sight: Careen'd the vessel, pitched, and veer'd; Raved, raved the wind with main and might; The sunken reef she near'd. She pounded over, lurched and sank Between two sand-bars settling fast; Her leaky hull the water drank, And she had sail'd her last. Into the rigging, quick as thought, Captain and mate and sailors sprung; Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught, And there all night they swung. And it was cold�oh, it was cold! The pinching cold was like a vise; Spoondrift flew freezing�fold on fold It coated them with ice. Now, when the dawn began to break, Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown, To fill her bucket from the lake, Came Mother Becker down. From where her cabin crown'd the bank Came Abigail Becker tall and strong; She dipped, and lo! a broken plank Came rocking close along! She pois'd her glass with anxious ken; The schooner's top she spied from far, And eight she counted of the men That clung to mast and spar. And oh, the gale! the rout and roar! The blinding drift, the mounting wave; A good half-mile from wreck to shore; Eight human lives to save! Sped brother Becker; �Children wake! A ship's gone down! they're needing me! Your father's off on shore; the lake Is just a raging sea! " Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands, And nearer, nearer, full in view; Went shouting through her hollowed hands, " Courage! We�ll get you through !� Ran to and fro, made cheery signs, Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea, Brought driftwood, 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 straight between the landings shut, Was never place where men might dwell, Save trapper Becker's hut And it was twelve, and one, and two, And it was three o�clock and more; She called; .'Come on! there's naught 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 sink or swim, eight men must die If here we swing to-night." Far out he marked the gathering surge; Across the bar he watched 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 unphurl�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.
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