THE gazelle's LOG. 165 



them before, and wondered, when we finally separated, if we 

 should ever meet in this world again. 



The yachting circles to which we were attached, form clusters 

 of unfading flowers in the garden of memory. They were com- 

 posed of persons as enthusiastic as we were in their expressions 

 of delight when viewing the exquisite beauties of the Bahama 

 isles and waters. Some were successful merchants from the 

 cities of the great west, who had run away from business, and 

 left all their heavy cares behind them. They seemed as gay and 

 sportive as children at play. Light-hearted and joyous, they 

 winged with a peculiar pleasure the flying hours. A log was 

 kept, and it was the source of much amusement. Its keeper, 

 being the head of the log, was voted to be, without any inten- 

 tional disrespect to the turtles, a loggerhead. Many wandering 

 ideas and gay fancies were shot on the wing, captured, and em- 

 balmed in its pages. It contained much entirely new matter, 

 which never had been before and never will be again added to 

 the wide domain of letters. 



Several portable mills ground out upon the water detached 

 stanzas of machine poetry. It was soon suspected that some of 

 our party, when preparing to enter upon the voyage of life, had 

 made mistakes, and gotten on board the wrong boats. Teas and 

 not tragedies, sugars and not songs, pork instead of poetry, had 

 occupied their time and engrossed their thoughts, to the great 

 loss of themselves and the world. 



A dignified, courtly gentleman, who, several years before, had 

 crossed the dividing line which runs mid-way between youth and 

 old age, and in whose bright and pleasant e3'es humor was lurk- 

 ing in ambush, on one of our sailing excursions perpetrated the 

 following: 



We venture in the gay Gazelle, 

 Because with Amos all is well, 

 But what may happen uouc can tell. 



