Sick with the sense of human ingratitude I sank upon the sand.

The island became my home.

There I eked out a miserable existence, feeding on sand and gravel
and dressing myself in cactus plants. Years passed. Eating sand and
mud slowly undermined my robust constitution. I fell ill. I died.
I buried myself.

Would that others who write sea stories would do as much.



_IX. -- Caroline's Christmas: or, The Inexplicable Infant_


IT was Xmas--Xmas with its mantle of white snow, scintillating from
a thousand diamond points, Xmas with its good cheer, its peace on
earth--Xmas with its feasting and merriment, Xmas with its--well,
anyway, it was Xmas.

Or no, that's a slight slip; it wasn't exactly Xmas, it was
Xmas Eve, Xmas Eve with its mantle of white snow lying beneath
the calm moonlight--and, in fact, with practically the above list
of accompanying circumstances with a few obvious emendations.

Yes, it was Xmas Eve.

And more than that!