Why The Sea Is Salt

AN OLD STORY.

Long ago the water was fresh that now is salt in the seven seas.

Once on a time upon a moor There lived a man who grew so poor That though he toiled with all his might From early morn till late at night, He found it harder every day To keep the hunger wolf away.

One Christmas eve in deep despair He found the cupboards all were bare. His wife and children hungry-eyed Their dumb reproaches strove to hide; But all in vain, their deep distress Caused him to groan in helplessness. All hopelessly he turned about To seek what fate might hand him out.

His old godmother years ago Had helped him when his funds were low; But she had been for many a day Godmothering so far away, That thoughtlessly she’d failed to heed This godson’s present, direful need. But now by chance with beaming smile She met him e’er he’d gone a mile.

She said, “Come, shorten up your face; The world’s a very pleasant place!” Alas, her cheer could not avail; He told her all his woeful tale. She brought out from her ample cloak A side of bacon brown with smoke, And said, “Take this and keep on straight Until you reach an iron gate; It is the gate of hell--repress Your tendency to nervousness, The Devil never would admit A man like you into the pit; But with the bacon you can go Into the anteroom of woe. Now everybody knows full well That bacon’s very scarce in hell; And any of the Devil’s kind Would sell his soul for bacon rind. Just look behind the entrance door; You’ll see a mill upon the floor. Don’t come away from there until You trade that bacon for the mill.”

And so it happened in detail; The man’s persistence did prevail; He took the mill with him, while hell Was filled with frying bacon smell.

The man’s godmother made him stay A minute on his homeward way, That he might gain the needed skill To operate the magic mill. With hands above the mill outspread She bade him listen well and said:--

“Grind, mill grind The thing that’s in my mind; Grind, mill grind.”

Round went the mill, a “coach and four” Stood ready with an open door.

“Stay, mill stay, No more I pray, Stay, mill stay.”

So said the dame; and lo, the mill Stopped instantly and stood stock still. (Imagine how ’twould be today If she had let it grind away!)

The man turned round with thankful pride To ask the dame to have a ride; But she had vanished; with a thrill He lifted up the precious mill, Stepped in the coach and banged the door As if he’d done it oft before. (He took with grace, like you or me, An unaccustomed luxury.)

He reached his home and bolted in; The mill ground with a merry din, A table, chairs, and linen laid By butler and a serving maid; A shining set of silver plate, And food and drink enough to sate A hungry family, and then-- The mill was asked to grind again. ’Twas Christmas eve and all with glee Asked of the mill a Christmas tree.

Then for each happy, weary head It ground a grateful downy bed; And then, ah me, such restful sleep! For sweet and pleasant dreams too deep.

But one small daughter woke in fright, (I’m sure her supper wasn’t light.)

And while she lay there scared and still, She said the rhyme to start the mill. Now nightmares of most every kind Just then filled up her little mind. The mill began and from its spout Assorted nightmares galloped out. They kept on coming out until The father woke and stopped the mill. Alas, the nightmares still were there, Neighing and stamping everywhere. The man called on the mill to grind A driver of the nightmare kind; And when one came he stopped the mill. The driver drove the nightmares till There wasn’t one that you could find; And as he followed on behind He cracked his whip with leathern thong And drove them back where they belong. So quiet was restored and then They all went back to sleep again.

The next day saw a busy mill; It ground a mansion on a hill, With all things else they could require To make the land of heart’s desire.

Then, since the man was wise, behold, It ground the cellars full of gold. And then the mill was put away And never turned for many a day.

* * * * *

A Captain of a freighting ship, Who sailed with salt, trip after trip, Heard of the magic mill; said he, “I’d never have to sail the sea If I could get that mill, ah well, I’ll ask the man if he will sell.” “I’d never sell the mill,” said he, “I’ll give it to you willingly.” The Captain scarce could trust his ears; For he had had the gravest fears That mills like this would come so high That he could never hope to buy. In haste he took the mill away; He feared that if he made delay The man might chance to change his mind. He’d learned the rhyme to make it grind, But his mad haste would not permit His learning how to make it quit. He reached the ship and sailed away; And when they passed beyond the bay He set the mill--the story’s told-- Where hatches opened to the hold. Then said the rhyme to make it grind While only salt was in his mind. The salt streamed forth, the Captain smiled; Not very long was he beguiled; The hold was filled up to the top; The Captain told the mill to stop. It ground right on without a check; The salt was piling on the deck. His sword in anger then he drew And cut the fiendish thing in two. Each half kept grinding more and more; The salt came faster than before. It sank the ship and all were drowned; But still the mill keeps turning ’round And grinding salt; so that must be The way the salt came in the sea.

The critics here will stop and tell How devils haven’t souls to sell.