eserved more to be hanged. The captain
screamed with delight:--"he'll get bone soup, at least, for a while,
instead of Santa Fe good mutton-chops at our expense."

My second crew was furnished by Mr. Pete, before referred to, and on the
seventeenth of December we set sail from that country of revolutions.
Things soon dropped into working order, and I found reason to be pleased
with the change of crew. We glided smoothly along down the river, thence
wishing never again to see Rosario under the distressing circumstances
through which she had just passed.

On the following day, while slipping along before a light, rippling
breeze, a dog was espied out in the current, struggling in the
whirlpools, which were rather strong, apparently unable to extricate
himself, and was greatly exhausted. Coming up with him our main-tops'l
was laid to the mast, and as we ranged by the poor thing, a sailor,
plunging over the side in a bow-line, bent a rope on to doggy, another
one hauled him carefully on board, and the rescue was made. He proved
to be a fine young retriever, and his intelligent signs of thankfulness
for his escape from drowning were scarcely less eloquent of gratitude
than human spoken language.

This pleasant incident happening on a Friday, suggested, of course, the
name we should give him. His new master, to be sure, was Garfield, who
at once said, "I guess they won't know me when I get home, with my new
suit--and a dog!" The two romped the decks thenceforth, early and late.
It was good to see them romp, while "Friday" "barkit wi' joy."

Our pets were becoming numerous now, and all seemed happy till a
stowaway cat one day killed poor little "Pete," our canary. For ten
years or more we had listened to the notes of this wee bird, in many
countries and climes. Sweetest of sweet singers, it was buried in the
great Atlantic at last. A strange cat, a careless steward, and its tiny
life was ended--and the tragedy told. This was indeed a great loss to us
all, and was mourned over,--almost as the loss of a child.

A book that has been read at sea has a near claim on our friendship, and
is a thing one is loth to part with, or change, even for a better book.
But the well-tried friend of many voyages is oh! so hard to part with at
sea. A resting-place in the solemn sea of sameness--in the trackless
ocean, marked only by imaginary lines and circles--is a cheerless spot
to look to; yet how many have treasures there!

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