Now, my readers, allow me to transport you down a dusty street in a small English port village at the turn of the twentieth century. Villagers bustle about, off to work or the market because the sun has just peaked above the horizon. But, forgetting the rest of these individuals, I would like to draw your attention to a stiff, bent old man named Thomas Whitley. While treading down the cobblestones with the help of a twisted walking stick, sunlight reflects off his tanned, balding head. His piteous, patched brown jacket has shrunk over the years just as he has. The old man hobbles along with his rusty tin case to the outskirts of the village. Arriving at the boats lining the shore of the green, sparkling waters, he makes his way to a small wooden one gently bobbing with the waves. Pushing the boat off the rocky shore, Thomas cautiously climbs in, places a weathered cap on his head, and hauls several fishing nets to one side of the boat. While inspecting his nets, the fisherman comes across an unnaturally large hole.

“Ackk! Those young fools again! Tampering with my nets . . . ”


Growling and mumbling to himself, Thomas beached his boat, climbed back out, and hurried to where many of the young sailors sat smoking their cigars and joking crudely over the townspeople and the goings on.

“Now one of ye scalawags has slashed through me nets! Which of ye was it?” Thomas gruffly shouted, jabbing his cane at the group. The men smirked under his steely gaze but said nothing. “Well? If one a’ ye don’t speak up I’m calling the authorities! Ehh? None a’ ye? Alright then!”

He turned and started on his way, but one of the young rogues roughly grabbed him by the arm, shoving him against the nearby brick wall. With a gruff voice the young man sneered, “You go’en get the coppers, old man, and your dyin’ day’ll come sooner ‘en you wish!”

Stabbing his cane down on the sailor’s foot, Thomas managed to loose from the rogue’s weathered hands and hurry back to his small boat. Though still a sturdy sailor, he secretly quaked from the frightening encounter. While catching his breath, he climbed back into his boat and commenced to mend his nets, a lengthy process that never left them as good as new. All too soon the sun began sinking into the horizon. As the shadows fell, Mr. Whitley repacked his little tin case and hobbled home.
The warm light emanating from his humble home cheerfully greeted the downtrodden sailor as he creaked open the small wooden door. His round, cheery wife stood at the stove stirring the simple potato soup they had eaten entirely too often these last months. Strands of grey hair fell untidily from under a white kerchief, and her long dress and shawl had long since faded from their original color. The small house showed signs of the couple’s poor state. The pantry contained little to eat, and the only furniture that stood in the kitchen was a simple wooden table with two worn, high-backed chairs.

“Another meal of this miserable potato soup! Ye’are trying to kill me my Margret!” the ornery old man nagged at his wife.

“Oh, m’dear I am dreadfully sorry! I just haven’t been able to buy enethin’ else at the market with just the money from ye fish!” she exclaimed, trying to please her unaffectionate husband.

“Oh, stop ye gripin’! I do what I can but them young wretches always ruin me fishing things just for laughs. I tell ye if they do it again I’ll . . . I’ll . . . ” After a pause he despairingly slumped into his chair.

Margret looked at him with pity because, even with his cross remarks, his heavy, cheerless blue eyes reached into her heart. She bent down and clasped his hand and gently kissed his cheek, which comforted him more than anything she could think to say.

“Ye know what my darlin’? All those boys need is a little motherin’. They’re unkept, unloved ruffians because they never had some carin’ from a mother and I intend to change ‘em!” the old man’s wife exclaimed resolutely.

“Pah! Ye aren’t serious! These are not boys m’dear! These are rough rogues! No mother’s lovin’ could change their ways!”

“Well, I am goin’ t’ try. I’ll take the little savins we ‘ave and buy some ingredients to make some good hardy bread an’ a nice mutton soup. I’m sure they couldn’t get a meal like that with the few silvers they ‘ave!” she told her husband excitedly.

“I tell ye it won’t change ‘em. That’s fer certain!” Thomas huffed.

Bright and early the next morning the sailor’s cheerful little wife set to cooking, determined to show “those boys” some kindness and give them a bit of mothering. The old sailor hobbled to the shipyard with a scowl, knowing that the sailors would have undoubtedly tampered with his small fishing boat. After climbing in, he noticed that one of his oars had been broken in half. He groaned dejectedly and, with great difficulty, rowed out into the green waters. The sun burned overhead and the harsh sea air blew across Thomas’s face as he cast his nets and drew them up with the little strength he had.

He caught a much greater load of fish than he had in many weeks and, feeling satisfied with the morning’s haul, he rowed back to shore. Margret had just arrived with his lunch as well as many other odd parcels. She excitedly handed one to him and, as he opened the bundle, his sharp blue eyes widened. He pulled out two small, beautifully baked loaves of bread and a tin of savory mutton soup. He looked up to thank his wife, but she was already hurrying to deliver her other parcels to the rowdy group of sailors.


Margret approached the sailors who had just finished tying up their boats as they sat around smoking in their usual way. A few of the men caught sight of her and snickered among themselves about a woman not belonging in a shipyard. But the courteous captain scolded the others and stood up, with his hat in his hands, greeting her kindly.

“ ’Ello ma’am! What can we ‘elp you with?” he asked with an awkward smile.

“Well my young man, I actually came to ‘elp you! Or, give ye all some lunch that is!”

“Well well! That is very kind of ye ma’am! We are all much obliged! Aren’t we men?” He looked around with the question phrased as more of a command to the men than anything. They politely nodded and Margret, with a bright smile, passed around the lunch bundles.

“I’ll be comin’ every day to bring ye men some lunch along with my ‘usband. I’m sure ye know ‘im? He’s the rather old sailor sittn’ over on the shore.”

The men looked round at one another shamefacedly and the captain, noticing this, asked,

“Is there somethin’ you men aren’t tellin’ me? What’re ye all lookin’ sorry about?”

“Nothin’ Sir,” they slowly mumbled.

“Well then, get up an’ thank the kind lady for the lunches and make certain there isn’t enethin’ you should be sorry about.”

They clumsily thanked her and, with a motherly smile, she left them, waved to her husband, and returned home. The kind captain made sure from that day on each man routinely helped old Mr. Whitley with his fishing. Thomas learned to treat the young men kindly, every one respecting the old fisherman more each day. Though they did not restrain from all their rowdy ways, the young rouges grew into greater gentleman.

On a clear day months later, Mrs. Whitley returned home from her daily lunch delivery with a basket full of food from the market. As we follow her into the tidy kitchen, you will see a bright blue cotton tablecloth lying delicately over the wooden table with a vase of colorful flowers decorating the center. As she entered the pantry, you can see it contained much food along with even a few delicacies. The kitchen walls have a fresh splash of salmon-colored paint and vibrant artwork by local artisans. As she finished unloading, a jovial Thomas entered excitedly, chattering about the great amount of money he had earned that day with the help of the young sailors, and how he never knew of so many “extraordinary fish.” The satisfied couple chatted on until the sun dipped below the horizon. This, my dear readers, is where we shall leave the Whitley’s, content and devoted to each other more than ever before.