ake my position more comfortable, and
it was painful enough in itself without them. It was certain, however,
that complaint or sorrow could be of no service, and might be just the
contrary, as the indulging in either would, probably, prevent my doing
what was necessary to try and save myself should an opportunity offer.

The grey light, in the meantime, had become warmer and warmer in its
tone, until the face of every cloud towards the east was tinged with
gold. While I was admiring the beautiful sight, for it was so beautiful
that it made me forget for a time my sad position, my eyes were caught
by the shining arch of the rising sun, as it sprang all of a sudden above
the surface of the sea. Oh! never shall I forget the view! Between me and
the brilliant orb lay a pathway of gold, which rose, and fell, and
glittered, and got at last so broad and dazzling, that my eyes could look
at it no longer. I knew it was but the sun's light upon the water, but it
looked so firm, that I could almost fancy I should be able to spring upon
it, and run on and on until I reached some friendly country. But alas!
there seemed little chance of such a thing happening as my ever reaching
land again.

As the sun got high up, and poured his rays on to the sea, I began to
feel a craving for food, and, though surrounded with water, yet the want
of some to drink. When the thirst came upon me, I at first lapped up a
few drops of the sea-water with avidity, but I soon found that it was not
fit to drink, and that the little I had taken only made my thirst the
greater. In the midst of my suffering, a poor bird came fluttering
heavily along, as if his wings were scarce able to support his weight.
Every little object was interesting to me just then, and as I sat upon my
piece of timber I looked up at the trembling creature, and began
comparing his fate with my own. "Ah, Job," I said, half-aloud, "you
thought, perhaps, that you were the only unhappy being in the world. Look
at that poor fowl; there he is, far away from land, from his home, from
his friends, perhaps his little ones (for many birds have large
families), with tired wings, and not a piece of ground as broad as his
own tail for him to rest upon. He must go on, fatigued though he may be,
for if he fall, nothing can prevent his death; the water will pour among
his feathers, clog his wings, and not only prevent him ever rising more
into the air, but pull him down until his life is gone. So, Job