It ended with this short
"poem," over which Katy laughed till Mrs. Ashe called feebly across the
entry to ask what _was_ the matter?
"Break, break, break
And mis-behave, O sea,
And I wish that my tongue could utter
The hatred I feel for thee!
"Oh, well for the fisherman's child
On the sandy beach at his play;
Oh, well for all sensible folk
Who are safe at home to-day!
"But this horrible ship keeps on,
And is never a moment still,
And I yearn for the touch of the nice dry land,
Where I needn't feel so ill!
"Break! break! break!
There is no good left in me;
For the dinner I ate on the shore so late
Has vanished into the sea!"
Laughter is very restorative after the forlornity of sea-sickness; and
Katy was so stimulated by her letter that she managed to struggle into
her dressing-gown and slippers and across the entry to Mrs. Ashe's
stateroom. Amy had fallen asleep at last and must not be waked up, so
their interview was conducted in whispers. Mrs. Ashe had by no means got
to the tea-and-toast stage yet, and was feeling miserable enough.
"I have had the most dreadful time with Amy," she said. "All day
yesterday, when she wasn't sick she was raging at me from the upper
berth, and I too ill to say a word in reply. I never knew her so
naughty! And it seemed very neglectful not to come to see after you,
poor dear child! but really I couldn't raise my head."
"Neither could I, and I felt just as guilty not to be taking care of
you," said Katy.
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