our vessel; and often I wonder whence they came, to what distant shore
they are bound, and if they make the rude wave their home and resting-
place during the long day and dark night; and then I recall to mind the
words of the American poet, Bryant,--

"He who from zone to zone
Guides through the boundless air their certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Wilt guide my steps aright."

Though we have been little more than a week on board, I am getting weary
of the voyage. I can only compare the monotony of it to being weather-
bound in some country inn. I have already made myself acquainted with
all the books worth reading in the ship's library; unfortunately, it is
chiefly made up with old novels and musty romances.

When the weather is fine I sit on a bench on the deck, wrapped in my
cloak, and sew, or pace the deck with my husband, and talk over plans
for the future, which in all probability will never be realized. I
really do pity men who are not actively employed: women have always
their needle as a resource against the overwhelming weariness of an idle
life; but where a man is confined to a small space, such as the deck and
cabin of a trading vessel, with nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing
to do, and nothing to read, he is really a very pitiable creature.

There is one passenger on board that seems perfectly happy, if one may
judge from the liveliness of the songs with which he greets us whenever
we approach his cage. It is "Harry," the captain's goldfinch--"the
_captain's mate_," as the sailors term him. This pretty creature has
made no fewer than twelve voyages in the _Laurel_. "It is all one to him