And the trunks begin to slide;
When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap,
And Mummy tells you to let her sleep,
And you aren't waked or washed or dressed,
Why, then you will know (if you haven't guessed)
You're "Fifty North and Forty West!"

--_Just-So Stories._

"Now run, dear! That's the gangway! You take the baby, and I'll take the
fitted bag! Yes, I have the sea-sick tablets; they're here in my pocket
with the tickets and the letters of credit and the travellers' cheques
and the baby's mittens and the trunk keys and the--Well, I don't care
_who's_ here to see us off! People ought to know better! Now hurry up!
There goes the whistle!"

It is an awful quarter of an hour, that quarter of an hour before the
liner sails; that worrying, waving, whooping, whistling quarter of an
hour through which you stand on deck like a human centre-piece loaded
with candy, fruit, and flowers, surrounded by a phantasmagoria of
friendly faces, talking like a dancing-man and feeling like a dancing
dervish. Small wonder that the deafening whistle-blast and cry of "All
ashore!" smite sweetly on your ears. Small wonder that you hand a dollar
to your sister and kiss the porter who has brought your steamer-rugs.

Ah, blessed moment when the dock begins to move away with all those
laughing, crying, waving, shouting people; when snub-nosed tugs begin to
warp the ship into the stream; when the final howlings of the
megaphonomaniacs sound dim. ("Bon voyage, Charlie!" "Take care of
yourself, old man! Think of me in gay Par-ree!")

[Illustration: SMALL WONDER THAT YOU HAND A DOLLAR TO YOUR SISTER AND
KISS THE PORTER.]

You lean, in a dazed way, upon the rail, turning on maudlin grins and
waving your cap at no one in particular, until the crowd becomes a
moving blur upon the dock-end. The liner's nose points down the river;
gentle vibrations tell you she is under way; small craft dip flags and
toot as they go by; the man-made mountain of Manhattan's office
buildings drops astern; the statue of Liberty, the shores of Staten
Island, the flat back of Sandy Hook run past as though wound on rollers;
the pilot goes over the side with a bag of farewell letters; the white
yacht which has followed down the bay blows a parting blast, dips her
ensign, and swings in a wide circle toward New York; the pursuing tug
comes up and puts a tardy passenger aboard. Then, suddenly, like a
sleep-walking dragon that wakes up, the liner shakes herself