of four double-tier berths on the starboard side and
the rack just described is a handy locker for oil clothes and heavy
overcoats. Lockers run along under the lower berths, and trunks with a
thousand other articles are stowed under the tables. A square hole cut
in the bulkhead, just over the galley head, lets heat into the
wardroom and assists the lamps in keeping us warm. As yet, in spite of
some quite cold weather, we have been perfectly comfortable.
Sometimes, however, odors come in as well as heat from the galley, and
do not prove so agreeable. If to this description, clothes of various
kinds, guns, game bags, boots, fishing tackle and books, should, by
the imagination of the reader, to be scattered about, promiscuously
hung, or laid in every conceivable nook and corner, a fair idea of our
floating house could be obtained. On deck we are nearly as badly
littered, though in more orderly fashion. Two nests of dories, a row
boat, five water tanks, a gunning float, and an exploring boat, partly
well fill the Julia's spacious decks. The other exploring boat hangs
inside the schooner's yawl at the stern. Add to these two hatch
houses, a small pile of lumber, and considerable fire wood snugly
stowed between the casks, and you have a fair idea of our anything but
clear decks. A yellow painted bust, presumably of our namesake Julia,
at the end of figure-head, peers through the fog and leads us in the
darkness; a white stripe relieves the blackness of our sides; a green
rail surmounts all; and, backed by the forms of nineteen variously
attired Bowdoin men, from professor, their tutor, alumnus, to
freshmen, complete our description.

[The Fourth of July] Meanwhile the night, clear but windless, has come
on, and we drift along the Nova Scotia coast, lying low and blue on
our northern board. The Fourth dawns rather foggy, but it soon yields
to the sun's rays and a good breeze which bowls us along toward the
Cape. An elaborate celebration of the day is planned, but only the
poem is finally rendered, due probably to increased sea which the
brisk breeze raises incapacitating several of the actors for their
assigned parts. The poem, by the late editor of '91's "BUGLE," is
worthy of preservation, but would hardly be understood unless our
whole crowd were present to indicate by their roars the good points in
it.

At night our constant follower, the fog, shuts in, and the captain
steering off the Cape, we lay by, jumping and rolling