 On The Sea, by Yvonne Tergenyev Red For LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintiff pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little black cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden colour. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mast-tops in cloud, and daising and wearing the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in the obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious lurid light. Long straight folds, like the folds and some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk, with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface, and the captain, a silent man with a gloomy sunburned face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess, we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November 1879 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Sea by Ivan Turgenev. Read for LibriVox.org by Cornel Nemes. April 17, 2019. Reno, Nevada. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and the little female monkey whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on the deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird. Every time I passed by her, she stretched out her little black cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small, a thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mass tops in cloud, and dazing and wearing the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange mysterious lurid light. Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tedious lead thudding wheels, white as milk with a faint hiss. It broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished to swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang, the small bells turned. From time to time a purpose swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with the gloomy sunburned face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull stagnancy. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her, she ceased whining and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side, like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confiningly up to me as to a brother. November 1879 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the sea by Ivan Tergenev, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in the little plaintiff pipe like a bird. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little black, cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mass tops in cloud, endazing and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hang, a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange mysterious lurid light. Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, turned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk, where the faint hiss had broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished, too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkeys' wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy sunburned face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious streaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November 1879. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Sea by Ivan Tugenev, translated by Constance Garnett, read from LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers. I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little black cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead comb. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden colour. It seemed narrowed and small, a thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mast tops in cloud, and daising and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light. Long, straight folds like the folds in some heavy silken stuff passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening, were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, whiter's milk, with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist, persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface, and the captain, a silent man with a gloomy sunburnt face, smoked a short pipe, and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess. We sat side by side, like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled, so confiding lay up to me. As to a brother, November 1879. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Sea by Yvonne Taragenev, read for LibriVox.org by Florence Short. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly, and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her, she stretched out her little black cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very masktops in cloud, endazing and wearing the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious lurid light. Long, straight foals, like the foals in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening. We're smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk. With a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's whine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sun-burnt face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with this drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidently up to me as to a brother. November 1879 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Sea, by Ivan Turgenev, read for LibriVox.org by Garth Burton. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little, black, cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden colour. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mastops in cloud, and daising and wearing the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light. Long, straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake, and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk, with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again, and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a poor voice swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sunburnt face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November 1879. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On The Sea by Yvonne Turgenev. Read by LibriVox.org by Greg Giardano. Newport Richie, Florida. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her, she stretched out her little black, cold hand, and peeped up at me, out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining, and moving restlessly about. It was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like emotionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mass tops in cloud, endazing and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung a dull red blur in the obscurity, but before evening it glowed a strange mysterious lured light. Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy, silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk, with the faint hiss that broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swelled up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with the sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sun-burnt face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. As I sat down beside her she ceased whining and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We were all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November, 1879. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little black cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining, and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides, like a motionless sheet of leaden colour. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mast tops in cloud, and daising and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in this obscurity. But before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light. Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening, was smoothed out again with a shake, and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels. White as milk, with a faint hiss, it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again, and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sunburned face, smoked a short pipe, and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness. And, buried in the same unconscious dreaminess, we sat side by side, like brother and sister. I smile now. But then I had another feeling. We're all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November 1879. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little black cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrow and small. The thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mastops in cloud, and daisying and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with a strange, mysterious lurid light. Long, straight folds, like the folds of some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening, were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tedious studding wheels, white as milk with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sunburnt face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded with a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her, she ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side, like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidently up to me as to a brother. November 1879 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Sea by Ivan Turgenev. Red for LibriVox.org by Josh Kibi I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little pint of pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out a little black cold hand and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mass tops in cloud, and daisying and wearing the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light. Long, straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prowl, and broadening as they passed and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels. White as milk with the faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive is the monkey's wine, ring the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sun-burnt face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her, she ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me, as to a brother. November 1879 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Sea by Ivan Turgenev, read for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her, she stretched out her little black cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of lead in color, seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog over hung it, hiding the very mastops in cloud, and daising and wearing the eye with its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lured light. Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prowl, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening, were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, whitest milk with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. In the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sun-burnt face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble, always obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her, she ceased whining and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We were all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidently up to me as to a brother. November 1879. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Sea by Ivan Terganev, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plenty pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed her she stretched out her little black cold hand and peeped at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The seas stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of lead and color. It seemed narrowed and small. The thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mass tops in cloud, and dazing and wearing the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung a dull red blur in the obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange mysterious lurid light. Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tedious thudding wheels, white as milk with the faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's whine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise wham up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. Now the captain, a silent man with a gloomy sunbird face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the doll's stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with his drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November 1879. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. On the Sea, by Yvonne Turgenev, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shampf. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers. I, and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plate of pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her, she stretched out her little black, cold hand, and peeped up at me, out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she seized whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small. The thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mass tops in cloud, and daising and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung a dull red blur in this obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious lurid light. Long, straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the smooth sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake, and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tedious, thudding wheels, white as milk. With a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again, and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's whine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy sunburnt face, smoked a short pipe, an angrily spat into the dull stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her, she ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November, 1879. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. On the Sea by Ifan Torkenev, read for LibriVox.org by Scottie Smith. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain on one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe, like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little black, cold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless sheet of leaden color. It seemed narrow and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mastops and cloud, and daising and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in the obscurity, but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light. Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening, were smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels. White as milk, with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface. And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sunburned face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her, she ceased whining and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We were all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me, as a brother. November 1879 End of poem This recording is in the public domain On the Sea by Ivan Turgenev, read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers, I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was sending as a present to his English partner. She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little black, gold hand, and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on our sides like a motionless sheet of lead in colour. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick fog overhung it, hiding the very mastops and cloud, and daising and wearing the eyes of its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in this obscurity. But before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light. Long, straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prowl, and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening were smoothed out again with a shake, and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk, with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wine rang the small bell at the stern. From time to time a poor boy swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared below the scarcely ruffled surface, and the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sun-burnt face, smoked a short pipe and angrily spat into the doll's stagnant sea. To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same unconscious dreaminess, we sat side by side like brother and sister. I smile now, but then I had another feeling. We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me as to a brother. November 1879 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.