A Thousand-Mile V alk 
fields of seaweed, of which I procured speci- 
mens. I thoroughly enjoyed life in this novel 
little tar-and-oakum home, and, as the end of 
our voyage drew nigh, I was sorry at the 
thought of leaving it. 
We were now, on the twelfth day, approach- 
ing New York, the big ship metropolis. We 
were in sight of the coast all day. The leafless 
trees and the snow appeared wonderfully 
strange. It was now about the end of February 
and snow covered the ground nearly to the 
water’s edge. Arriving, as we did, in this rough 
winter weather from the intense heat and gen- 
eral tropical luxuriance of Cuba, the leafless, 
snow-white woods of New York struck us with 
all the novelty and impressiveness of a new 
world. A frosty blast was sweeping seaward 
from Sandy Hook. The sailors explored their 
wardrobes for their long-cast-off woolens, and 
pulled the ropes and managed the sails while 
muffled in clothing to the rotundity of Eskimos. 
For myself, long burdened with fever, the frosty 
wind, as it sifted through my loosened bones, 
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