Beautiful Tutuila fading already on the horizon as I write. How we longed to linger on her shores for a time!
Monday, September 15th.—During the night we have been passing near the scattered group of the Society Islands. From the course mapped out on the chart in the companion-way you would think we threaded our way amongst them, but we did not sight land.
We have a sudden change in the temperature to-day; the thermometer has fallen from 85° to 74°, the warm breeze is replaced by a cold wind, and the blue sky by drifting clouds. The sullen rolling waves are again tipped with white horses. We have left behind us the balmy atmosphere, and the bright colour of sea and sky on leaving the tropics.
Before night we were having a good tossing, and we held a concert in the saloon, with the wind playing an accompaniment in the rigging overhead. Ten pounds were collected for the Shipwrecked Mariners' Society of Australia.
Some athletic sports had been organized on board, some sack-racing and ring-tilting for the gentlemen, and quoits and an egg-race (running with an egg in a spoon) for the ladies. The captain promised a bouquet to the winner of the latter race, which turned out to be myself, and it was to be presented on this occasion. There had been great speculation on board about the production of flowers after being at sea ten days; the captain would only say it "was growing." The purser brought it in with some ceremony, a flat bouquet, of a beautiful pale green colour, with a delicate suspicion of pink stripes. There was a low murmur of admiration and surprise, and it turned out to be—only a cabbage! A young man of artistic tastes in the steerage had originated the idea, and coloured it slightly with cochineal.
Tuesday, September 16th.—A dull leaden sky, with a heavy swell, the remains of the gale of yesterday. There is nothing more solemn than to lie awake on a rough night like last night, feeling the reverberation of the heavy seas striking the ship broadside. Hearing the creaking and straining of every plank, feeling the bound the ship gives as she leaps into the trough of the sea, and is raised again on the breaker. It makes us think how slight is the framework sustaining some 250 people on an angry sea, how a leak the size of the little finger would be enough to sink every one of us on board. We have had another short run, and are doing no better with a head wind and sea to-day.
Wednesday, September 17th.—I saw the sun rise this morning, with the most delicate rose-colour tints, but this was not the most beautiful part of the sky; it was the lovely form of the clouds, billowy masses, delicately delineated with pink, shading into the palest salmon colour.
Thursday, September 18th, was not for us, as we were crossing the 180th meridian, that curious phenomenal feature which you meet with in going round the world. Difficult to understand, well-nigh impossible for the unscientific to put into words.
"This is Friday, September 19th," said a notice on the companion-way, on what should have been Thursday. We may be in to-morrow, or at latest the day after. We are nearing our journey's end, and already beginning to think with dread of the packing and early starts, the constant "move on," from which we have had such a complete rest. What an interminable time those three weeks seemed when we left "'Frisco,"—how short they have really been!
I have been writing for many hours every day, putting into shape and form all the rough notes and journal of our travels across America, and I look round with regretful happiness at my little cabin, where I have spent so many happy hours, sitting before the table (improvised out of the washing-stand), lurching about on a camp-stool, trying to be steady enough to write. It is nearly over now, and we are very sorry.