HOW NOT TO GO. 123 



as thousands of the flower of the volunteer militia 

 of the United States passed under them. 



I had been in the saddle ten hours on that event- 

 ful day, spent the evening in packing camp luggage 

 for our annual fishing-trip to Grand Lake, and 

 retired thinking that our pleasant sail on the mor- 

 row would give us ample opportunity for much- 

 needed rest and recuperation. 



But, alas ! the highly old and respectable firm of 

 Pluvius and Boreas put their heads together ; and 

 the latter so stirred up the former, that rest and 

 comfort to us poor landsmen was one of the lost 

 arts. 



We were pitching along through a heavy sea, a 

 stiff easterly gale blowing, the rocky coast outline 

 being scarcely perceptible through the mist and 

 rain. 



I had been gazing out of the stateroom-window 

 at the any thing but inviting prospect, occasionally 

 administering a few crumbs of comfort to the limp 

 specimen of womanly beauty and equal rights who 

 lay so quietly in her narrow berth ; when at her 

 feeble request to consult the officers of the boat as 

 to whether there might be or was a presumptive, 

 presumable, plausible probability of the storm let- 

 ting up a little, " For," said she, " if I've got to 

 stand this all the way to Eastport I " 



