ymour Narrows, and her fate was sudden death.
The United States steamer _Suwanee_ met with a like misfortune on
entering Queen Charlotte Sound. It is rather jolly to think of these
things, and to realize that we were in more or less danger; though the
shores are as silent as the grave, the sea sleeps like a mill-pond, and
the sun sinks to rest with great dignity and precision, nightly bathing
the lonely North in sensuous splendor.

It is getting late. Most of us are indulging in a constitutional. We
rush up and down the long flush decks like mad; we take fiendish delight
in upsetting the pious dignity of the evangelist; we flutter the smokers
in the smoking-room--because, forsooth, we are chasing the girls from
one end of the ship to the other; and consequently the denizens of the
masculine cabin can give their undivided attention to neither cards nor
tobacco. What fun it all is--when one is not obliged to do it for a
living, and when it is the only healthy exercise one is able to take!

By and by the girls fly to their little nests. As we still stroll in the
ever-so-late twilight, at 10 p. m., we hear them piping sleepily, one to
another, their heads under their wings no doubt. They are early
birds--but that is all right. They are the life of the ship; but for
their mirth and music the twilight would be longer and less delightful.
Far into the night I linger over a final cigarette. An inexpressible
calm steals over me,--a feeling as of deliverance, for the time being at
least, from all the cares of this world. We are steaming toward a mass
of shadows that, like iron gates, seem shut against us. A group of
fellow-voyagers gathers on the forward deck, resolved to sit up and
ascertain whether we really manage to squeeze through some crevice, or
back out at last and go around the block. I grow drowsy and think fondly
of my little bunk.

What a night! Everything has grown vague and mysterious. Not a voice is
heard--only the throb of the engine down below and the articulated
pulsation of the paddles, every stroke of which brings forth a hollow
sound from the sea, as clear and as well defined as a blow upon a
drumhead; but these are softened by the swish of waters foaming under
the wheel. Echoes multiply; myriads of them, faint and far, play
peek-a-boo with the solemn pilot, who silently paces the deck when all
the ship is wrapped in a deep sleep.

CHAPTER VII.

Alaskan Village Life.

With the morning coffee ca