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- 5394
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:18.535Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 5317
- text
- thing strains to keep up with its fellows. Yet little they heed. Away
they go; every fish for itself, and any fish for Samoa.
At last the poor Boneeta is seen no more. The myriad fins swim on; a
lonely waste, where the lost one drops behind.
Strange fish! All the live-long day, they were there by our side; and
at night still tarried and shone; more crystal and scaly in the pale
moonbeams, than in the golden glare of the sun.
How prettily they swim; all silver life; darting hither and thither
between their long ranks, and touching their noses, and scraping
acquaintance. No mourning they wear for the Boneeta left far astern;
nor for those so cruelly killed by Samoa. No, no; all is glee, fishy
glee, and frolicking fun; light hearts and light fins; gay backs and
gay spirits.—Swim away, swim away! my merry fins all. Let us roam the
flood; let us follow this monster fish with the barnacled sides; this
strange-looking fish, so high out of water; that goes without fins.
What fish can it be? What rippling is that? Dost hear the great monster
breathe? Why, ’tis sharp at both ends; a tail either way; nor eyes has
it any, nor mouth. What a curious fish! what a comical fish! But more
comical far, those creatures above, on its hollow back, clinging
thereto like the snaky eels, that cling and slide on the back of the
Sword fish, our terrible foe. But what curious eels these are! Do they
deem themselves pretty as we? No, no; for sure, they behold our limber
fins, our speckled and beautiful scales. Poor, powerless things! How
they must wish they were we, that roam the flood, and scour the seas
with a wish. Swim away; merry fins, swim away! Let him drop, that
fellow that halts; make a lane; close in, and fill up. Let him drown,
if he can not keep pace. No laggards for us:—
We fish, we fish, we merrily swim,
We care not for friend nor for foe:
Our fins are stout,
Our tails are out,
As through the seas we go.
Fish, Fish, we are fish with red gills;
Naught disturbs us, our blood is at zero:
We are buoyant because of our bags,
Being many, each fish is a hero.
We care not what is it, this life
That we follow, this phantom unknown:
To swim, it’s exceedingly pleasant,—
So swim away, making a foam.
This strange looking thing by our side,
Not for safety, around it we flee:—
Its shadow’s so shady, that’s all,—
We only swim under its lee.
And as for the eels there above,
And as for the fowls in the air,
We care not for them nor their ways,
As we cheerily glide afar!
We fish, we fish, we merrily swim,
We care not for friend nor for foe:
Our fins are stout,
Our tails are out,
As through the seas we go.
But how now, my fine fish! what alarms your long ranks, and tosses them
all into a hubbub of scales and of foam? Never mind that long knave
with the spear there, astern. Pipe away, merry fish, and give us a
stave or two more, keeping time with your doggerel tails. But no, no!
their singing was over. Grim death, in the shape of a Chevalier, was
after them.
How they changed their boastful tune! How they hugged the vilified
boat! How they wished they were in it, the braggarts! And how they all
tingled with fear!
For, now here, now there, is heard a terrific rushing sound under
water, betokening the onslaught of the dread fish of prey, that with
spear ever in rest, charges in upon the out-skirts of the shoal,
transfixing the fish on his weapon. Re-treating and shaking them off,
the Chevalier devours them; then returns to the charge.
- title
- Chunk 2