This puny appearance continued with him till the age of twelve,
when it was removed by the following extraordinary providence.

On a trip to the West Indies, which his friends put him upon
for his health's sake, the little schooner in which he was embarked
was suddenly attacked by some monstrous fish, probably a thorn-back whale,
who gave it such a terrible stroke with his tail as started a plank.
The frightened crew flew to their pumps, but in vain; for the briny flood
rushed with such fury into their vessel, that they were glad to quit her,
and tumble as fast as they could into their little jolly boat.
The event showed that this was as but a leap "out of the frying pan
into the fire"; for their schooner went down so suddenly
as not to give them time to take a mouthful of food with them,
not even so much as a brown biscuit or a pint of water.
After three wretched days of feverish hunger and thirst,
they agreed to kill a little cabin dog who had swam to them from the schooner
just before she sunk. On his raw flesh they feasted without restraint;
but the blood they preserved with more economy, to cool their parched lips.
In a few days, however, their own blood, for lack of cooling food,
became so fiery hot as to scald their brain to frenzy. About the tenth day
the captain and mate leaped overboard, raving mad; and the day following
the two remaining seamen expired in the bottom of the boat,
piteously crying to the last for WATER! WATER! God of his mercy forgive me,
who have so often drank of that sweet beverage without
grateful acknowledgments! Scarcely was this melancholy scene concluded
before a vessel hove in sight, standing directly for the boat,
as if purposely sent to save the child that was tossing in it
on the gloomy waves.

Little Marion was so weak that he could not stir hand or foot to climb up