of sight of land?

Oh! for a refreshing glimpse of one blade of grass--for a snuff
at the fragrance of a handful of the loamy earth! Is there
nothing fresh around us? Is there no green thing to be seen?
Yes, the inside of our bulwarks is painted green; but what a vile
and sickly hue it is, as if nothing bearing even the semblance of
verdure could flourish this weary way from land. Even the bark
that once clung to the wood we use for fuel has been gnawed off
and devoured by the captain's pig; and so long ago, too, that the
pig himself has in turn been devoured.

There is but one solitary tenant in the chicken-coop, once a gay
and dapper young cock, bearing him so bravely among the coy hens.

But look at him now; there he stands, moping all the day long on
that everlasting one leg of his. He turns with disgust from the
mouldy corn before him, and the brackish water in his little
trough. He mourns no doubt his lost companions, literally
snatched from him one by one, and never seen again. But his days
of mourning will be few for Mungo, our black cook, told me
yesterday that the word had at last gone forth, and poor Pedro's
fate was sealed. His attenuated body will be laid out upon the
captain's table next Sunday, and long before night will be buried
with all the usual ceremonies beneath that worthy individual's
vest. Who would believe that there could be any one so cruel as
to long for the decapitation of the luckless Pedro; yet the
sailors pray every minute, selfish fellows, that the miserable
fowl may be brought to his end. They say the captain will never
point the ship for the land so long as he has in anticipation a