eing up, the next thing is to make the toilette. We keep our
fresh water, for minor ablutions, in an old wine cask from Bristol. The
colour of the liquid is a tawny yellow: it is, in fact, weak sherry and
water. For the major ablutions, we have the ship's bucket and the sea,
and a good stock of rough towels to finish with. The next thing is
breakfast on deck. When we can catch fish (which is very seldom, though
we are well provided with lines and bait) we fall upon the spoil
immediately. At other times we range through our sea stores, eating
anything we like, cooked anyhow we like. After breakfast we have two
words to say to our box of peaches, nectarines, and grapes, from the
hospitable country-house. Then the bedding is brought up to air; the
deck is cleaned; the breakfast things are taken away; the pipes, cigars,
and French novels are produced from the cabin; Mr. Migott coils himself
up in a corner of the cockpit, and I perch upon the taffrail; and the
studies of the morning begin. They end invariably in small-talk, beer,
and sleep. So the time slips away cosily till it is necessary to think
about dinner.

Now, all is activity on board the Tomtit. Except the man at the helm,
every one is occupied with preparations for the banquet of the day. The
potatoes, onions, and celery, form one department; the fire and solid
cookery another; the washing of plates and dishes, knives and forks, a
third; the laying of the cloth on deck a fourth; the concoction of
sauces and production of bottles from the cellar a fifth. No man has any
particular department assigned to him: the most active republican of the
community, for the time being, plunges into the most active work, and
the others follow as they please.

The exercise we get is principally at this period of the day, and
consists in incessant dropping down from the deck to the cabin, and
incessant scrambling up from the cabin to the deck. The dinner is a long
business; but what do we care for that? We have no appointments to keep,
no visitors to interrupt us, and nothing in the world to do but to
tickle our palates, wet our whistles, and amuse ourselves in any way we
please. Dinner at last over, it is superfluous to say, that the pipes
become visible again, and that the taking of forty winks is only a
prohibited operation on the part of the man at the helm.

As for tea-time, it is entirely regulated by the wants and wakefulness
of Mr. Migott, who, since the death of Dr. Johns