At length the island disappeared against the cliff, and we saw them no more; then the cliffs sank down—the Great Lyngmarken became a speck of brightness on the waste of waters; then it too was lost; and this “Land of Desolation,” around which will always cling pleasant memories of hospitable people, unusual adventures, and a profitably spent summer, fades away, and an experience the like of which might be had by many at small cost and little risk, takes its place among the “departed joys.”
We have still, however, one Greenland token left with us, and that we propose to leave behind us too, for dark clouds are rising in the sky, and a dirty night is coming on; besides, an ugly sea is getting up, and the Hvalfisken’s hawser is in danger.
“Brig ahoy!” roars out the captain.
A head appears above the bulwarks, and an answering “Ay, ay,” comes across the water.
“Stand by—we are going to cast you off.”
“Stop, stop a bit,” cries the sagaman.
“What for?” the captain asks.
“You shall see;” and sure enough we do, for he whips a scrap of paper from his pocket, on which something is written; he hands it round; we sign it, one and all; the captain puts it in a bottle, which he corks tightly, and, along with another bottle of more portly size, labelled “Reserve L. G. L.,” he puts it in a tin box, which Mick ties to the hawser and lets fall into the sea. We hear a lively cry on board the brig as they haul in the line; we see a sailor find the box and take it aft; and we know, presently, that the paper is deciphered, and our pledges responded to, by the appearance of heads above the quarter-rail, the fluttering of handkerchiefs, and the unmistakable appearance of glasses raised at arm’s length, all of which evidences of hilarity will be best understood by repeating the round robin our sagaman had written, and we had sent through the sea as our final adieu to “The Land of Desolation.” Thus it ran:
“We drop you a line, and we bid you adieu!
Now fill up your glasses and pledges renew,