a bird upon the
wing.

He rigged a tiny mast there--it was a walking-stick that ably served
this purpose; the captain's wife provided sails no larger than
handkerchiefs. With thread-like ropes and pencil spars he set his sails
for dreamland. One day the wind bothered him; he could not trim his
canvas, and in desperation he set it dead against the wind, and then the
sails were filled almost to bursting. But his navigation was at fault;
for he was heading in a direction quite opposite to the _Flying Cloud_.

Then came a facetious sailor and whispered to him: "Do you want ever to
get to New York?"--"Yes, I do," said the little captain of the midair
craft.--"Well, then, you'd better haul in sail; for you're set dead agin
us now." The sails were struck on the instant and never unfurled again.

I wonder why some people are so very inconsiderate when they speak to
children, especially to simple or sensitive children? The small, sad boy
took it greatly to heart, and was cast down because he feared that he
might have delayed the bark that bore him all too slowly toward the
far-distant port. This was indeed simplicity of the deepest dye, and
something of that simplicity the boy was never to escape unto the end
of time. We are as God made us, and we must in all cases put up with
ourselves.

What a lonely voyage was that across the vast and vacant sea! Now and
then a distant sail glimmered upon the horizon, but disappeared like a
vanishing snowflake. The equator was crossed; the air grew colder; storm
and calm followed each other; the daily entry now becomes monotonous.

"FEBRUARY 2.--To-day for the first time we saw an albatross.

"7.--Rather rough and cold; I have spent all day in the cabin. It makes
me homesick to have such weather.

"14.--I rose at five o'clock and went on deck, and before long saw land.
It was Terra del Fuego; it was a beautiful sight. Here lay a pretty
island, there a towering precipice, and over yonder a mountain covered
with snow. We made the fatal Cape Horn at two o'clock, and passed it at
four o'clock. Now we are in the Atlantic Ocean.

"WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.--Rough weather: a sixteen-knot breeze. To-day we
got our one thousandth egg, and the hens are doing well. At
twelve--eight bells--we saw a sail on our weather-bow: she was going the
same way as we were. At two, we overtook and spoke her. She was the
whaler _Scotland_ from New Zealand, bound for New Bedford, with
thirty-five hundred barrels