The Mat-Maker

           Itwasacloudy,sultryafternoon;theseamenwerelazilyloungingaboutthedecks,orvacantlygazingoverintothelead-coloredwaters.QueequegandIweremildlyemployedweavingwhatiscalledasword-mat,foranadditionallashingtoourboat.Sostillandsubduedandyetsomehowpreludingwasallthescene,andsuchanincantationofrevelrylurkedintheair,thateachsilentsailorseemedresolvedintohisowninvisibleself.

           IwastheattendantorpageofQueequeg,whilebusyatthemat.AsIkeptpassingandrepassingthefillingorwoofofmarlinebetweenthelongyarnsofthewarp,usingmyownhandfortheshuttle,andasQueequeg,standingsideways,everandanonslidhisheavyoakenswordbetweenthethreads,andidlylookingoffuponthewater,carelesslyandunthinkinglydrovehomeeveryyarn;Isaysostrangeadreaminessdidtherethenreignallovertheshipandalloverthesea,onlybrokenbytheintermittingdullsoundofthesword,thatitseemedasifthisweretheLoomofTime,andImyselfwereashuttlemechanicallyweavingandweavingawayattheFates.Therelaythefixedthreadsofthewarpsubjecttobutonesingle,everreturning,unchangingvibration,andthatvibrationmerelyenoughtoadmitofthecrosswiseinterblendingofotherthreadswithitsown.Thiswarpseemednecessity;andhere,thoughtI,withmyownhandIplymyownshuttleandweavemyowndestinyintotheseunalterablethreads.

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