It was on Christmas morning—
The land was out of sight;
The deck with ice was coated,
The rigging stiff and white;
A bitter wind was blowing;
Both sea and land were grey,
When behind a pile of boxes
We found a stowaway.
His eyes were red with weeping,
His lips were blue with cold;
His wistful childish features
Looked strangely pinched and old.
We took him to the captain—
"Now, what have you to say?"
He cried in tones of thunder
To the frightened stowaway.
"My father was a sailor, sir,
And he was lost at sea.
My mother in the churchyard lies
Beneath a willow-tree.
I want to sail the ocean,
I love the wind and spray.
My name is Davy Decker."
Said the orphan stowaway.
The captain swore a little,
As sailors often do,
But his eyes were dim and misty
And his voice was tender too,
Though he tried to speak quite gruffly—
"I guess that you can stay,
Though a ship is not a nursery,
My youthful stowaway."
Through days of stormy weather,
And nights of sleet and storm,
The boyish shape was ever
By the captains burly form.
His Christmas gift he called him,
Fast friends and comrades they—
The stern and grizzled master,
And the orphan stowaway.
See yonder splendid vessel,
A miracle of grace,
With decks as white as silver,
And spars as fine as lace
On her bridge there stands the captain,
In blue with button gay—
'Tis Captain Davy Decker
and his good ship Stowaway.
Notes from the Family
It’s unclear when this was written or if it was ever published. It was found typewritten on two pieces of tattered, ruled, writing paper—covered with Isa’s edits and strikethroughs.