Monday, 2 P.M.—Got under wa. Hosses not remarkable frisky at fust. Had to bild fires under 'em before they'd start. Started at larst very suddent, causin the bote for to lurch vilently and knockin me orf from my pins. (Sailor frase.) Sevral passenjers on bored. Parst threw deliteful country. Honest farmers was to work sowin korn, and other projuce in the fields. Surblime scenery. Large red-heded gal reclinin on the banks of the Canawl, bathin her feet.
Turned in at 15 minits parst eleving.
Toosdy.—Riz at 5 and went up on the poop deck. Took a grown person's dose of licker with a member of the Injianny legislater, which he urbanely insisted on allowin me to pay for. Bote tearin threu the briny waters at the rate of 2 Nots a hour, when the boy on the leadin hoss shoutid—
"Sale hoe!"
"Whar away?" hollered the capting, clearin his glass (a empty black bottle, with the bottom knockt out) and bringing it to his Eagle eye.
"Bout four rods to the starbud," screamed the boy.
"Jes so," screeched the capting. "What wessel's that air?"
"Kickin Warier of Terry Hawt, and be darned to you!"
"I, I, Sir!" hollered our capting. "Reef your arft hoss, splice your main jib-boom, and hail your chamber-maid! What's up in Terry Hawt?"
"You know Bill Spikes?" said the capting of the Warier.