alternating with the one hundred and third Psalm in Gaelic. The
passenger holds on for dear life and wonders why the winds sing those
words over and over again.

Sabbath passes, day melts into night, night fades into day, the storm
tosses the ship and sea-sickness tosses the passenger. The captain
enquires, "Is that passenger no better yet?" Comes to see in his
doctoral capacity, looks like a man not to be trifled with, feels the
pulse, orders a mustard blister, brandy and ammonia, and scolds the
patient for starving, like a wise captain and kind man as he is. All the
ship stores are ransacked for something to tempt an appetite that is
above temptation; but the captain is absolute, and we can testify that
eating from a sense of duty is hard work. It was delightful to get rid
of an occasional apple on the sly to one of the ship's boys and be
rewarded with a surprised grin of delight.

It is grand to lie on cushions on the companion-way and watch long
rollers as they heave up and look in at the door-way. They rise rank
upon rank, looking over one another's shoulders, hustling one another in
their boisterous play, like overgrown schoolboys, who will have fun at
whoever's expense. Sometimes one is pushed right in by his fellows, and
falls down the companion-way in a little cataract, and then the door is
shut and they batter at it in vain. Then there is a great mopping up of
a small Atlantic.

The storm roars without, and within the passenger lies day after day
studying the poetry of motion. There is one motion that goes to the tune
of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep," but this rocking is so violent
that as one dashes from side to side, holding on to the bars above and
the edge of the berth, one is led to pity a wakeful baby rocked wickedly