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[start page] her pleasant little master from Medford, of Medford girls and ships; and of poor Jack and his vices and virtues, and of seabirds, Jewlets among the feathered tribes, of Mother Carey and Davy Jones and their chickens and lockers; of the floating crabs and pteropods and barnacles, pelagians, and wanderers. And of the family and old farm in the seaboard of the Granite State, of the old father making name and fame in the pinetree State and the boys all doing well, and now honorable and respected men in their several stations; of the family romance; what family has not its romance? with the tearful interest of life and reality in it, of courtship and marriage of true women and fickle flirts, of the girl I left behind me; of home, of science, of disinterested love work for Natural History, of generosity, daring, truth, in fire of Youth. Four bells and I bid the Captain good night and pleasant dreams, and with my guiding bug on my cap, for it is Sunday and muster and duff day; make the rest of my way down into the wardroom our sea parlor and to be my home, probably, for many months. Here is Ananias, the destroyer of duff and hash who on another night would be playing seven up; discussing old times in Washington and Frisco; the marine secretary, polite, witty [end page] [start page] and small, with a weakness for puns, and gin and sugar. Father Jack Bunsby with his horsehair beard, perusing something that looks very much unlike a prayerbook: the gentlemanly adjutant discussing the latest army news, now alas! Three weeks old and likely to be older; Aristophanes discussing the ceremonies of the Greek Church with an elevation of upper lip that sets off his feeble mustache and imperial. The young man who has been a whaling and [[underlined]] didn't [[/underlined]] get the porpoise the other day, relating some of his exploits (with the long bow?); Collyris the Quartermaster, pegging away at his writing. Ananias's "old woman", fatigued with the labors of the muster and supporting his dignity, is starting for his bunk. Our healthy little executive officer is looking on for a moment snatched from his many labors; Petropovolowsky is reading "The peanut womans secret or the apple womans revenge," in yellow covers with a likeness of a ten cent piece there on. Last but not least the Scientific cuss is posting up his log, or scratching his head over the mysteries of the ragged language of Russia, or building castles in the undiscovered country where naturalists are kings, and a new species to be got for the grabbing. Such is life on the ocean wave and our home on the rolling deep!
