There was one day when we all had an attack of the poetic fever and wrote verses. They will be found in the ship's log.
To-day is Sunday, and as usual we all attended services, which consist of songs and a short talk from C. C. The rest of the day is like any other.
Becalmed in Bering Sea.
Last night an exhausted sandpiper flew on board and was caught. I was asleep and the boys came and laid it on my breast. He Is now safely wrapped in cotton wadding and laid to rest in the aforementioned cracker-box. The boys declared they would whip me for not letting him go, and yet when they get a chance they shoot at birds from the boat for "sport," with no other purpose in view. I am doing my best to educate them in bird lore, but whenever I get off the long Latin names they give me the "ha-ha." By this time and after many lessons the most of them know a murre by sight, and a fork-tailed petrel, and a kittiwake; but when it comes to distinguishing the different species of anklets at a distance they think I am fooling them, and laugh at me until I show them the bird at close range. I never realized before the vastness of the sea as when a solitary little bird dips his wings and flies skyward.
CHAPTER II.
J
JUNE 1.—Yesterday the fog cleared and disclosed to us the snowy peaks of the Siberian coast far to the northwest, and in front to the north of us the long coast line of St. Lawrence Island. We headed for the west end of the island, intending to pass up the channel between it and the Siberian coast. Saw two vessels in the distance returning from that direction. After we had beat against a bad wind all day we found ourselves almost surrounded by icebergs. With the field glass we could see the whole horizon a solid mass of ice. Our way was blocked. Turning eastward, we tried the passage between St. Lawrence Island and the Alaskan coast. The wind was blowing bitterly cold from the Siberian shore. Beating eastward along the south side of the island, we have now left the ice behind. This afternoon a two-masted schooner spoke us on her way to try the passage we had just abandoned. She turned and sailed with us. She carried a pretty tough-looking crowd of miners. They, like ourselves, are bound for Kotzebue. We gave them the "Penelope" yell, which they returned with three cheers. In sizing up their piratical appearance we forgot to look in the glass.
June 25.—Seventy-five miles southeast of Bering Strait. The Alaskan mainland north of Norton Sound in plain view. Have spent five days trying to get around St. Lawrence. Are still in sight of the east end. It is calm. We need more wind. Entered Boring Sea two weeks ago, and the days have been like a yachting cruise. Everyone is in good spirits. Several of the boys are witty and jokes fly. And the singing!—we exhaust the words we know and then make up as we go along, like plantation negroes. Are playing several tournaments in games. Only one so far has been concluded—the domino game. Dr. Coffin and Jett were the unlucky ones, and last night they entertained the crowd. Captain was master of ceremonies and dressed in a most ludicrous manner. He made a mock speech and read a poem. The two unlucky victims were treated to burnt cork and wore great Eskimo muckluks (sealskin boots), murre-skin hats, and red calico decorations. Doctor beat the big tin washpan and Jett blew the foghorn. The captain's wand was a boat-hook with a shining red onion on the tip and bearing a red pasteboard banner with the motto. "On to Kotzebue." They were to march fifty times around the deck. Casey, our Irishman, was appointed policeman by the captain "to keep the small boys and the carriages off the street." And so, to the tune of the foghorn and the dish-pan, they tramped their penalty. Then the captain gave an exhibition of clog dancing, with a fife and harmonica accompaniment. So one can see there is always something going on to break the monotony and keep the blues away. We suffer little from dull times. Whales are now as common as seals. One we saw looked as large as the "Penelope." Clyde took its picture. I got out our Winchester to-day. Am on the lookout for polar bears, which are expected to frequent the ice packs. The cook has just yelled "Supper!" and everyone is singing "Beulah Land."
