the journey that otherwise might pass out of our memories. So many things
happen when one is travelling, that they are apt to crowd each other out
of mind unless a record is kept of them."

"We'll begin as soon as we get on the ship," said Lloyd. "Mothah shall
write first, then you, and then I. And let's put photographs in it, too,
as Mrs. Walton did in hers. It will be like writing a real book. Package
numbah two is lovely, Papa Jack."

It happened that Mr. Sherman was the only one who made an entry in the
record for more than a week. Mrs. Sherman felt the motion of the vessel
too much to be able to do more than lie out on deck in her steamer-chair.
The Little Colonel, while she was not at all seasick, was afraid to
attempt writing until she reached land.

"The table jiggles so!" she complained, when she sat down at a desk in the
ship's library. "I'm afraid that I'll spoil the page. You write it, Papa
Jack." She put back the pen, and stood at his elbow while he wrote.

"Put down about all the steamah lettahs that we got," she suggested, "and
the little Japanese stove Allison Walton sent me for my muff, and the
books Rob sent. Oh, yes! And the captain's name and how long the ship is,
and how many tons of things to eat they have on board. Mom Beck won't
believe me when I tell her, unless I can show it to her in black and
white."

After they had explored the vessel together, her father was ready to
settle down in his deck-chair in a sheltered corner, and read aloud or
sleep. But the Little Colonel grew tired of being wrapped like a mummy in
her steamer rug. She did not care to read long at a time, and she grew