200 MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION. 
the steamer ‘ Panama,’-—my destination San 
Francisco,—my mission to purchase mules. The 
island is still in its winter garb; not a bud has 
burst into leaf, and very few migratory birds 
have made their appearance. At 10.30 a.m. we 
are steaming out of the harbour; no wind, water 
smooth as a lake; run pleasantly down the Straits 
of Juan de Fuca, and pass Cape Flattery about 
4p.m. Wind blowing unpleasantly fresh, and a 
heavy tumbling swell makes the ‘ Panama’ dis- 
agreeably lively. Passengers rapidly disappear ; 
various gulping sounds, heavy sighs, and im- 
patient calls for the steward, tell clearly enough 
that the most terrible leveller next to death, sea- 
sickness, has begun its work below. 
March 1st.—A bleak misty morning, a heavy 
sea, wind dead ahead, and cold driving hail- 
showers. The ship, rolling from side to side, 
renders it difficult for even practised hands to 
guide anything spillable to the mouth; and walk- 
ing, save to a sailor or a housefly, is an impos- 
sible performance. 
March 2nd.—Managed to scramble on deck 
about 7 a.m., by going through a series of acro- 
batic performances, that came near to dislocating 
all my joints; wind moderated, but a heavy sea 
still rocked us very rudely. We are close in- 
