cruel and stupid, to say the least! What we were expelled for I have
already explained.

After being so long in gloomy circumstances we felt like making the most
of pleasant Rio! Therefore on the first fine day after being docked, we
sallied out in quest of city adventure, and brought up first in
Ouvidor--the Broadway of Rio, where my wife bought a tall hat, which I
saw nights looming up like a dreadful stack of hay, the innocent cause
of much trouble to me, and I declared, by all the great islands--in my
dreams--that go back with it I would not, but would pitch it, first,
into the sea.

I get nervous on the question of quarantines. I visit the famous
Botanical Gardens with my family, and I tremble with fear lest we are
fumigated at some station on the way. However, our time at Rio is
pleasantly spent in the main, and on the first day of June, we set sail
once more for Paranagua and Antonina of pleasant recollections; partly
laden with flour, kerosene, pitch, tar, rosin and wine, three pianos, I
remember, and one steam engine and boiler, all as ballast; "freight
free," so the bill of lading read, and further, that the ship should
"not be responsible for leakage, breakage, or rust." This clause was
well for the ship, as one of those wild _pampeiros_ overtook her, on the
voyage, throwing her violently on her beam-ends, and shaking the motley
cargo into a confused and mixed-up mess. The vessel remaining tight,
however, no very serious damage was done, and she righted herself after
a while, but without her lofty topgallant-masts, which went with a crash
at the first blast of the tempest.

This incident made a profound impression on Garfield. He happened to be
on deck when the masts were carried away, but managed to scamper off
without getting hurt. Whenever a vessel hove in sight after that having
a broken spar or a torn sail, it was "a _pampeiroed_ ship."

The storm, though short, was excessively severe, and swept over
Paranagua and Antonina with unusual violence. The owner of the pianos, I
was told, prayed for us, and regretted that his goods were not insured.
But when they were landed, not much the worse for their tossing about,
old Strichine, the owner (that was his name or near that, strychnine the
boys called him, because his singing was worse than "rough on rats,"
they said, a bit of juvenile wit that the artist very sensibly let pass
unheeded), declared that the ship was a good one, and that her captain
was a go