Each guided his skiff o'er the freshening wave, 'Neath a cloudless, sun-glorified sky. They had chatted together while making their boats, Half in serious mood, half in fun, Of parting their hair in the middle to aid Fair balance in the risk they might run. And thus, in increasing and joyful delight, They paddled a full hour and more, And were gaily returning triumphantly, when, Within about ten yards from shore, Young Ithill, the eldest, a youth of sixteen, His seat unaccountably lost, And out of the frail skiff, the promising boy, In a twinkling was ruthlessly tost. His nearest companion, young Whittaker, sprang, His canoe prompt assistance to lend, But the noble young Ithill refused to lay hold, For fear of endangering his friend. Young Girling was some distance off, but at once To the rescue most gallantly sprang, As meantime the cry of "a boy drowning," loud Through the air supplicatingly rang. And the mother of Girling, who heard that wild cry, Flew like lightning across to the strand, Plunged fearlessly into the tide, where her son Was struggling with stout heart and hand To reach his poor friend, and the brave mother sought To encourage his efforts to save, While she, who, like him, could not swim, struggled hard, Kept afloat by her clothes on the wave. But vain were their efforts, the telegraph boy Had sunk 'neath the pitiless wave, And his poor lifeless body, so late full of life, Now lies in its calm ocean grave. In response to shrill cries for assistance, some men Put off in a boat, all too late! Instead of at once plunging in to the boy, Thus heartlessly left to his fate, 'Tis said one of three or four beings called men, Calmly standing close by on the land, Threw stones to direct where the poor boy had sunk,