sailmaker mending an old topsail on the lee side of the quarter-deck; the carpenter working at his bench, in the waist; the boys making sinnet; the spun-yarn winch whizzing round and round, and the men walking slowly fore and aft with the yarns.  A cloud rises to windward, looking a little black; the skysails are brailed down; the captain puts his head out of the companion-way, looks at the cloud, comes up, and begins to walk the deck.  The cloud spreads and comes on; the tub of yarns, the sail, and other matters, are thrown below, and the sky-light and booby-hatch put on, and the slide drawn over the forecastle. ``Stand by the royal halyards’’; and the man at the wheel keeps a good weather helm, so as not to be taken aback.  The squall strikes her.  If it is light, the royal yards are clewed down, and the ship keeps on her way; but if the squall takes strong hold, the royals are clewed up, fore and aft; light hands lay aloft and furl them; top-gallant yards are clewed down, flying-jib hauled down, and the ship kept off before it,—­ the man at the helm laying out his strength to heave the wheel up to windward.  At the same time a drenching rain, which soaks one through in an instant.  Yet no one puts on a jacket or cap; for if it is only warm, a sailor does not mind a ducking; and the sun will soon be out again.  As soon as the force of the squall has passed, though to a common eye the ship would seem to be in the midst of it,—­ ``Keep her up to her course again!’’—­ ``Keep her up, sir,’’ (answer.)[1]—­ ``Hoist away the top-gallant yards!’’—­ ``Run up the flying-jib!’’—­ ``Lay aloft, you boys, and loose the royals!’’ and all sail is on her again before she is fairly out of the squall; and she is going on in her course.  The sun comes out once more, hotter than ever, dries up the decks and the sailors’ clothes; the hatches are taken off; the sail got up and spread on the quarter-deck; spun-yarn winch set a whirling again; rigging coiled up; captain goes below; and every sign of an interruption disappears.

These scenes, with occasional dead calms, lasting for hours, and sometimes for days, are fair specimens of the Atlantic tropics.  The nights were fine; and as we had all hands all day, the watch were allowed to sleep on deck at night, except the man at the wheel, and one lookout on the forecastle.  This was not so much expressly allowed as winked at.  We could do it if we did not ask leave.  If the lookout was caught napping, the whole watch was kept awake.  We made the most of this permission, and stowed ourselves away upon the rigging, under the weather rail, on the spars, under the windlass, and in all the snug corners; and frequently slept out the watch, unless we had a wheel or a lookout.  And we were glad enough to get this rest; for under the ``all-hands’’ system, out of every other thirty-six hours we had only four below; and even an hour’s sleep was a gain not to be neglected.  One would have thought so to have seen our watch some nights, sleeping through a heavy rain.  And often have we come on deck, and, finding a dead calm and a light, steady rain, and determined not to lose our sleep, have laid a coil of rigging down so as to keep us out of the water which was washing about decks, and stowed ourselves away upon it, covering a jacket over us, and slept as soundly as a Dutchman between two feather-beds.