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deck last night. She said: "Why is my face like a bird
that is just about to fly?" Ans. "Because both are to
soar." Ah me I am so sick.

Fourth Day—I am tired being at sea, and tired keep-
ing journal, and very tired of being seasick. I do wonder
where those Azores Islands are hidden away in this
boundless expanse of heaving water? I do so want to see
the land and the green trees again.

Fifth Day—Chicken soup for dinner, but my heart
is not in chicken soup. I care not for poetry, or for things
to eat or for dress. I have taken off hoops and put away
my waterfall, and all I take an interest in is being
squalmish and getting to shore again. It is funny, but
somehow I don't seem to care how I look.

Sixth Day—At last I am over it! I am not a bit sick
any more. And how different everything looks today.
Why, the sea is beautiful, actually beautiful! The soft
south wind is balmy and gentle, and I almost imagine
it has lost its nauseous odor of salt. I am like a new per-
son. I take an interest in everything now. Ah, yonder is
that scrimp-nosed little doll trying to make herself so

agreeable to Mr. ------. I will just happen along there

as if I were not noticing and see if I don't spoil your
schemes, Miss.

Here we are introduced to the now immortal
"Poet Lariat."

Bloodgood H. Cutter

He is 50 years old, and small of his age. He dresses
in homespun, and is a simple-minded, honest, old-
fashioned [Long Island] farmer with a strange procliv-
ity for writing rhymes. He writes them on all possible
subjects and gets them printed on slips of paper with his
portrait at the head. These he will give to any man that
comes along, whether he has anything against him or

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