Threeboot was a happy man. He used to say, "You've got to know what's yours, and why it's good." --- and he did.
He'd seen the old fishing and the new fishing, and baled a bloodshot eye at both, for different reasons. But he'd retired, to his satisfaction, on that soggy old sloop tied up to the trees, with chimney staggered up through her decks so he'd have most of the comforts of home (to put his feet up on, on a cold night.)
And so, when someone offered him a job lumping the fish out of a sardine carrier (lumping as in humping --- the old way --- as opposed to pumping --- the new way) and the wind happened to be blowing Northwest hard enough to crystallize a fellow's kneecaps, he took it as a personal affront. As a matter of fact, he considered the Northwest wind a personal affront. I don't blame him.
Mister, I don't mind you calling me a fool;
Better men than you have called me more.
But the man that's lumping fish out on this flying Northern wind
Hasn't got the brains to stay ashore.
Lord, I think of all them boats lying down the bay,
Riding back and stretching out their chain,
And I thank my cozy tones that I ain't on them, Mister Man,
I thank the Flying Pete that they ain't mine.
Well, you know that I don't mind her beating on my door,
I don't mind her howling 'round my head,
But she drives me and she grieves me all the weary winter day,
And then she wants to share my lonely bed.
Piled the foolish snow four feet up my door,
Scaled my pretty shutters down the bay,
Took the poor old shed apart and shingled half the hill;
Now she laughs to see a grown man cry.
You know, I'm pretty sure where I'm going when I'm done,
But I'd like to send the message on ahead;
Put the coal right to her, keep her jumping up and down,
'Cause that's the way I'll want her when I come.