"All berths and available sleeping-places are occupied. The clown,
trapeze performers, bareback riders, and various acrobatic artists are
compelled to sleep on deck. This is but little inconvenience in such
warm weather. They are stretched and curled in different shapes on
benches along the outer railings.

"It is about two o'clock in the morning, and a storm is coming. Soon the
waves dash and the rain pours down.

"I see a small bundle on the deck. It obstructs the approaches to the
'scupper' in front of my cabin door. About to step out and clear this
watercourse, I see that 'sorrel-top,' corpulent, garrulous German doctor
gently unwind the soaked package and tenderly gaze at an upturned
childish face. Apparently not approving of this unorthodox baptismal
procedure, the boy is borne away. Curled up in the German's warm berth,
this little eight-year-old bareback rider, wearied with the night's
performance, sleeps until the next evening, unconscious of what has
happened. Our fussy old 'granny' sits out on deck, rolling and pitching
with the boat's motion, wondering what ails that chap who never talks to
anybody.

"From now on I believe in human transfiguration. Coarse red hair is
silky auburn; fat face is luminous with refined, expressive lights;
stuttering voice is musical as mother's lullaby; and two gray eyes shine
like optics of those high sentinels who, keeping ceaseless childhood
watch, 'do ever behold the face of our Father.'

"Such long voyage gives time for much reflection. Many old, indistinct
recollections are photographed anew. Seen through readjusted visual
lens, these create strange emotions. Things witnessed and heard in
childhood now are understood more clearly. Vague impressions from books
are brought out in more definite relief. My dreams take on changed trend
from waking thoughts and emotional moods. Though fanciful tinting is
somber-hued, I have growing assurance that all tends to ultimate good.

"I dream of Promethean myth. Chained god writhes on Tarpeian rock,
Jove's black eagle tearing at the quick flesh, senseless of the cruel
feast. Poet's conceit is not too extravagant or remote. He who in any
age filches from time-lock combination light for his kind, must have his
Caucasus, whereon, blind scavangers of fate, batten harpy gorge, while
not a kindly drop softens Olmypus' cold, drear scowl. No prayer moves
those tense lips, but Caucasus groans with the voiceless petition, and
Olympus' huge