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Monday, March 27, 1911
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Reached Las Palmas, the home of the canary-birds, today. I don't know whether the birds were named after the islands, or the islands after the birds. That's neither here nor there. Neither hither nor thence. We dropt anchor a little after seven, and after the wind had moderated, a party of us went ashore. Clouds of dust. We took a curious old cart and druv through a succession of dusty and dirty roads to the town, where we visited the cigar-factory, the cathedral, and one of the hotels, and were stung in each. The town was a collection of dirty plaster box-houses, mainly, on which the

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Tuesday, March 28, 1911
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myriad hues of the rainbow didn't have anything. Dirty greasy Spanish peasants in the streets. Low beggars. A rum lot. They say the country in back of the town is extremely beautiful, however, and is rapidly becoming another madiera. Sailed at noon in the teeth of a snorter from north'ards. 

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We did get it, coming over from Las Palmas, too. She jumped all over the shop. The seas slapped on the deck over my cabin, and handed 'er a few, generally. I slept through the most, and worst, of it. 

Madeira showed up dead ahead as I turned

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