“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, these see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.  For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.  They mount up to the heaven; they go down again to the depths; their soul is melted because of trouble.  They reel to and fro and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end.  Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses.  He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.  Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven.  Oh, that men would praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the children of men!”

The small, sad boy looked smaller and sadder than ever as he stood on the deck of the Flying Cloud and waved his last farewell.  He tried his best to be manly and to swallow the heart that was leaping in his throat, and at the earliest possible moment he flew to his journal and made his first entry there.  He was going to keep a journal because his brother kept one, and because it was the proper thing to keep a journal at sea—­no ship is complete without its log, you know; and, moreover, I think it was a custom in that family to keep a journal; for it was, more or less, a journalistic family.

Now we are nearing the anniversary of that boy’s journal:  it runs through January, February and March; it is more than forty years old this minute.  And because it is a boy’s journal, and the boy was small and sad, I’m going to peep into it and fish out a line or two.  With an effort he made this entry: 

“CLIPPER SHIP, FLYING CLOUD,
  “January 4, 1857.

“I watched them till we were out of sight of them, and then began to look about to see what I could see.  It begins to get rough.  I tried to see home, but I could not.  The pilot says he will take a letter ashore for us.  Now I will go to bed.”

Then he cried unto the Lord in his trouble with a heart as heavy as lead.

“JAN. 5.—­The day rather rough, with little squalls of rain.  We are passing the Farallone Islands, but I feel too bad to sketch them.  I get homesick when I think of the dear ones I left behind me.  I hope I may see them all in this world again.”

That was the gray beginning of a voyage that had very little color in it.  The coast-line sank apace; the gray rocks—­the Farallones, the haunt of the crying gull—­dissolved in the gray mist.  The hours were all alike:  all dismal and slow-footed.

“I don’t feel very well to-day,” said the small, sad boy, quite plaintively.  On the 6th he brightens and begins to take notice.  History would have less to fasten on were there not some such entries as this: 

“A list of our live-stock:  17 pigs; 12 dozen hens and roosters; 3 turkeys; 1 gobbler; a cockatoo and a wild-cat.  We have a fair breeze, and carry 26 sails.