racted my particular attention,
was the manner in which the sailors partook of their meals. There was no
tedious ceremony or fastidious refinement witnessed on these occasions.
At twelve o'clock the orders were promptly given, "Call the watch! Hold
the reel! Pump ship! Get your dinners!" With never-failing alacrity the
watch was called, the log thrown, and the ship pumped. When these duties
were performed, a bustle was seen about the camboose, or large cooking
stove, in which the meals were prepared. In pleasant weather it was
usual for the sailors to take their meals on deck; but no table was
arranged, no table-cloth was spread, no knives and forks or spoons were
provided, no plates of any description were furnished, or glass tumblers
or earthen mugs. The preliminary arrangements were of the simplest
description.

The signal being given, the cook hastily transferred from his boilers
whatever food he had prepared, into a wooden vessel, called a kid,
resembling in size and appearance a peck measure. The kid with its
contents was deposited on the spot selected; a bag or box, containing
ship's biscuits was then produced, dinner was ready, and all hands,
nothing loth, gathered around the kid and commenced operations.

The usual fare was salt beef and bread, varied at stated times or
according to circumstances; and this has probably for centuries been the
standing dish for the forecastle in English and American ships. On this
passage, the Sunday dinner varied from the usual routine by the addition
of fresh meat. Every Sabbath morning a sheep, the finest and fattest of
the flock, was missing from the pens. Portions of the animal, however,
would appear a few hours afterwards in the shape of a luscious sea-pie
for the sailors, and in various inviting shapes during the following
week to the inmates of the cabin. This loss of property was recorded by
Mr. Thompson in the ship's log-book, with his accustomed accuracy, and
with Spartan brevity. The language he invariably used was, "A sheep died
this day."

Among the crew of the Dolphin were two weather-beaten tars, who were as
careless of their costumes as of their characters. They recked little
how ridiculously they looked, excepting in one respect. They could each
boast of a magnificent head of hair, which they allowed to grow to
a great length on the back of the head, where it was collected and
fashioned into enormous queues, which, when permitted to hang down,
reached to the