[Illustration: "We feel the heart throbs of old Neptune." (_See page 16._)]
The ocean air is delightful and invigorating, the sky a perfect azure, and the translucent waves with their foamy edges stretch away in long beautiful curves. We feel the heart throbs of old Neptune, as the waters plash softly over the steamer's sides, and we speed steadily forward, with the rush and swish of the sea sounding in our ears with a wild sweet melody all its own. To fall asleep on deck amid these charming conditions is delightful indeed. But how quickly the scene changes. Suddenly a shrill whistle from the Quartermaster summons all hands to the deck. Orders are rapidly given in quick sharp tones: "Aloft. Take sail in." "Aye, aye, sir," is the swift response, in a twinkling the sure-footed sailors are up among the yards, perched in seemingly impossible places, reefing the flapping sails in preparation for the coming storm. Dark clouds above are reflected in gloomy waves below, and heaving billows surround us, uniting with a furious wind that seems bent on the destruction of our noble ship. The sailors in the rigging are swaying to and fro, and the panic-stricken passengers in the cabins are telling each other with pale faces that belie their words that they are not afraid, for there is no danger; yet they listen anxiously for every sound from above, and will not allow their dear ones to move beyond reach of their hands. There is no music now in the rushing of the waves or the flapping of the sails. Old Neptune in his angry moods is not a desirable companion. But nothing lasts forever, and from storm and night and black despair the flower of hope arises, for there comes a lull, followed by a furious blinding onslaught, and then the spirit of the hurricane calls his followers and flies up, away, somewhere beyond our ken: the captain's face relaxes from its tense expression, and he looks proudly around his good ship which has come out victor in the struggle with the elements. One by one, the passengers appear on deck, the purple clouds, after a final frown of disapproval at things in general, break into smiles, life on shipboard resumes its everyday attitude, and all goes "merry as a marriage bell." Life is full of contrasts. This is a picture for which neither brush nor camera is ready. He who would paint it must draw it from its recess in his memory, or from some sheltered nook on shore, and be cool and calm enough to follow his favorite occupation in spite of the consciousness that life and death are struggling for mastery in yonder thrilling scene that will make him famous if he can but truly portray it upon his canvas.