ks
on the ocean came and went as softly as flowers unfold and disappear.
Thus far, married life had been ideal.

It was after eleven o'clock, and anxious passengers were pacing the
decks, hoping to sight native land before retiring. Suddenly the officer
on the bridge discerned the dim Fire Island Light, bearing north by west,
twenty miles distant. Ten minutes later, five points on the port bow, a
pilot boat was sighted. Her mast-head light was visible, also the torch,
which soaked in turpentine, burnt brightly at intervals.

The steamer signals, "We want a pilot," by burning a blue light on the
bridge, and bears down on the pilot schooner. The moon reveals enormous
figures, with a heavy dot beneath, on the mainsail of the schooner. Over
the rail goes the yawl, followed by the oarsman and pilot, whose turn
it is to go ashore. The pilot carries a lantern, which in the egg-shaped
yawl dances on the white wave crests up and down like a fire-fly. The
yawl is soon under the steamer's lee, and a line from the big ship pulls
the little boat to the ladder, and the pilot nimbly climbs to the
steamer's bridge, bringing the latest papers. The schooner drifts under
the steamer's stern, takes in the yawl, and again sails to the eastward
in search of another liner.

The entrance to the port of New York is patrolled night and day by a
pilot-fleet of thirty boats, which cost from $10,000 to $20,000 each.
They are staunch and seaworthy, the fastest schooners afloat. Often,
knocked down by heavy seas, for a moment they tremble, like a frightened
bird, then shaking the water off their decks, they rise, heave to,
perhaps under double reefed foresail, and with everything made snug,
outride the storm, and are at their work again. Pilots earn good pay, and
this they deserve, as they often risk their lives in behalf of others.

Sandy Hook Light was now in sight, and long before the sun began his
journey across the heavens, the steamer lay at anchor at quarantine,
waiting for a certificate from the health officer. As the steamer proudly
sped through "The Narrows," a jubilant crowd of passengers on the
promenade deck sang,

"My country 'tis of thee
Sweet Land of Liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died;
Land of the pilgrim's pride;
From ev'ry mountain side
Let freedom ring."

The hymn was sung to the tune of "God Save the Queen," and several
enthusiastic Englishmen joined with their kith and kin.

On Bed