The Calm and the Storm—A Serious Loss and Great Gain—Bird-Catching Extraordinary—Saved at Last.  
One day a deep death-like calm settled down upon the ocean. For some days before, the winds had been light and uncertain, and the air had been excessively warm. The captain cast uneasy glances around him from time to time, and looked with a sadder countenance than usual on the haggard faces of the men as they laboured slowly and silently at the oars.
 
“I don’t know what this will turn to, doctor,” he said, in a low tone; “I don’t like the look of it.”
 
The doctor, who was perusing Ailie’s journal at the moment, looked up and shook his head.
 
“It seems to me, captain, that whatever happens, matters cannot be made much worse.”
 
“You are wrong, doctor,” replied the captain quietly; “we have still much to be thankful for.”
 
“Did you not tell me a few minutes ago that the water was almost done?”
 
The doctor said this in a whisper, for the men had not yet been made aware of the fact.
 
“Yes, I did; but it is not quite done; that is matter for thankfulness.”
 
“Oh, according to that principle,” observed the doctor, somewhat testily, “you may say we have cause to be thankful for everything, bad as well as good.”
 
“So we have! so we have! If everything good were taken from us, and nothing left us but our lives, we would have reason to be thankful for that—thankful that we were still above ground, still in the land of hope, with salvation to our immortal souls through Jesus Christ freely offered for our acceptance.”
 
The doctor made no reply. He thought the captain a little weak in the matter of religion. If religion is false, his opinion of the captain no doubt, was right, but if true, surely the weakness lay all the other way.
 
That morning the captain’s voice in prayer was more earnest, if possible, than usual, and he put up a special petition for water, which was observed by the men with feelings of great anxiety, and responded to with a deep amen. After morning worship the scales were brought, and the captain proceeded to weigh out the scanty meal, while the men watched his every motion with an almost wolfish glare, that told eloquently of the prolonged sufferings they had endured. Even poor Ailie’s gentle face now wore a sharp, anxious expression when food was being served out, and she accepted her small portion with a nervous haste that was deeply painful and touching to witness. She little knew, poor child, that that portion of bread and meat and water, small though it was, was larger than that issued to the men, being increased by a small quantity deducted from the captain’s own allowance and an equal amount from that of Glynn. The latter had noticed the captain’s habit of regularly calling off the child’s attention during the distribution of each meal, for the purpose of thus increasing her portion at the expense of his own, and in a whispering conversation held soon after he insisted that a little of his allowance should also be transferred to her. At first the captain firmly refused, but Glynn said that if he did not accede to his wish he would hand over the whole of his portion in future to the monkey, let the result be what it might! As Glynn never threatened without a full and firm resolve to carry out his threats, the captain was compelled to give in.
 
When the water came to be served out that morning the captain paused, and looking round at the anxious eyes that were riveted upon him, said—
 
“My lads, it has pleased the Almighty to lay His hand still heavier on us. May He who has said that He will not suffer men to be tempted above what they are able to bear, give us strength to stand it. Our water is almost done. We must be content with a quarter of our usual allowance.”
 
This information was received in deep silence—perhaps it was the silence of despair, for the quantity hitherto served out had been barely sufficient to moisten their parched throats, and they knew that they could not exist long on the reduced allowance.
 
Jacko came with the rest as usual for his share, and held out his little hand for the tin cup in which his few drops of water were wont to be handed to him. The captain hesitated and looked at the men; then he poured out a few drops of the precious liquid. For the first time a murmur of disapproval was heard.
 
“It’s only a brute beast; the monkey must die before us,” said a voice which was so hollow and changed that it could scarcely be recognised as that of Tarquin, the steward.
 
No one else said a word. The captain did not even look up to see who had spoken. He felt the justice as well as the harshness of the remark, and poured the water back into the jar.
 
Jacko seems puzzled at first, and held out his hand again; then he looked round on the men with that expression of unutterable woe which is peculiar to some species of the monkey tribe. He seemed to feel that something serious was about to happen to him. Looking up in the sad face of his young mistress, he uttered a very gentle and plaintive “oo-oo-ee!”
 
Ailie burst into a passionate flood of tears, and in the impulse of the moment handed her own cup, which she had not tasted, to Jacko, who drained it in a twinkling—before the captain could snatch it from his hands.
 
Having emptied it, Jacko went forward as he had been taught to do, and handed back the cup with quite a pleased expression of countenance—for he was easily satisfied, poor thing!
 
“You should not have done that, my darling,” said the captain, as he gave Ailie another portion.
 
“Dear papa, I couldn’t help it,” sobbed the child; “indeed I couldn’t—and you need not give me any. I can do without it to-day.”
 
“Can you? But you shan’t,” exclaimed Glynn, with a degree of energy that would have made every one laugh in happier times.
 
“No, no, my own pet,” replied the captain. “You shan’t want it. Here, you must drink it, come.”
 
From that day Jacko received his allowance regularly as long as a drop of water was left, and no one again murmured against it. When it was finished he had to suffer with the rest.
 
The calm which had set in proved to be of longer duration than usual, and the sufferings of the crew of the little boat became extreme. On the third day after its commencement the last drop of water was served out. It amounted to a couple of teaspoonfuls per man each meal, of which there were three a day. During the continuance of the calm, the sun shone in an almost cloudless sky and beat down upon the heads of the men until it drove them nearly mad. They all looked like living skeletons, and their eyes glared from their sunken sockets with a dry fiery lustre that was absolutely terrible to behold. Had each one in that boat possessed millions of gold he would have given all, gladly, for one drop of fresh water; but, alas! nothing could purchase water there. Ailie thought upon the man who, in the Bible, is described as looking up to heaven from the depths of hell and crying for one drop of water to cool his tongue, and she fancied that she could now realise his agony. The captain looked up into the hot sky, but no blessed cloud appeared there to raise the shadow of a hope. He looked down at the sea, and it seemed to mock him with its clear blue depths, which looked so sweet and pleasant. He realised the full significance of that couplet in Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner—
 
        “Water, water, everywhere,
 
        But not a drop to drink.”
 
and, drawing Ailie to his breast, he laid his cheek upon hers and groaned aloud.
 
“We shall soon be taken away, dear papa!” she said—and she tried to weep, but the tears that came unbidden and so easily at other times to her bright blue eyes refused to flow now.
 
The men had one by one ceased to ply their useless oars, and the captain did not take notice of it, for he felt that unless God sent relief in some almost miraculous way, their continuing to row would be of no avail. It would only increase their agony without advancing them more than a few miles on the long, long voyage that he knew still lay before them.
 
“O God, grant us a breeze!” cried Mr Millons, in a deep, tremulous tone breaking a silence that had continued for some hours.
 
“Messmates,” said Tim Rokens, who for some time had leaned with both elbows on his oar and his face buried in his hands, “wot d’ye say to a bath? I do believe it ’ud do us good.”
 
“P’haps it would,” replied King Bumble; but he did not move, and the other men made no reply, while Rokens again sank forward.
 
Gurney and Tarquin had tried to relieve their thirst the day before by drinking sea-water, but their inflamed and swollen throats and lips now showed that the relief sought had not been obtained.
 
“It’s time for supper,” said the captain, raising his head suddenly, and laying Ailie down, for she had fallen into a lethargic slumber; “fetch me the bread and meat can.”
 
Dick Barnes obeyed reluctantly, and the usual small allowance of salt junk was weighed out, but there were no eager glances now. Most of the crew refused to touch food—one or two tried to eat a morsel of biscuit without success.
 
“I’ll try a swim,” cried Glynn, suddenly starting up with the intention of leaping overboard. But his strength was more exhausted than he had fancied, for he only fell against the side of the boat. It was as well that he failed. Had he succeeded in getting into the water he could not have clambered in again, and it is doubtful whether his comrades had sufficient strength left to have dragged him in.
 
“Try it this way, lad,” said Tim Rokens, taking up a bucket, and dipping it over the side. “P’raps it’ll do as well.”
 
He raised the bucket with some difficulty and poured its contents over Glynn’s head.
 
“Thank God!” said Glynn, with a deep, long-drawn sigh. “Do it again, Tim, do it again. That’s it,—again, again! No, stop; forgive my selfishness; here, give me the bucket, I’ll do it to you now.”
 
Tim Rokens was quickly drenched from head to foot, and felt great and instantaneous relief. In a few minutes every one in the boat, Jacko included, was subjected to this species of cold bath, and their spirits rose at once. Some of them even began to eat their food, and Briant actually attempted to perpetrate a joke, which Gurney seconded promptly, but they failed to make one, even a bad one, between them.
 
Although the cold bathing seemed good for them at first, it soon proved to be hurtful. Sitting and lying constantly night and day in saturated clothes had the effect of rendering their skins painfully sensitive, and a feverish feeling was often alternated with cold shivering fits, so they were fain to give it up. Still they had found some slight relief, and they bore their sufferings with calm resignation—a state of mind which was fostered, if not induced, by the blessed words of comfort and hope which the captain read to them from the Bible as frequently as his strength would permit, and to which they listened with intense, all-absorbing interest.
 
It is ever thus with men. When death approaches, in almost all instances, we are ready—ay, anxious—to listen with the deepest interest to God’s message of salvation through His Son, and to welcome and long for the influences of the Holy Spirit. Oh! how happy should we be in life and in death, did we only give heartfelt interest to our souls’ affairs before the days of sorrow and death arrive.
 
On the fifth morning after the water had been exhausted the sun arose in the midst of dark clouds. The men could scarcely believe their eyes. They shouted and, in their weakness, laughed for joy.
 
The blessing was not long delayed. Thick vapours veiled the red sun soon after it emerged from the sea, then a few drops of rain fell. Blessed drops! How the men caught at them! How they spread out oiled cloths and tarpaulins and garments to gather them! How they grudged to see them falling around the b............