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Updated: May 22, 2025
My hair was matted and wild my limbs soiled with salt ooze; while at sea, I had thrown off those of my garments that encumbered me, and the rain drenched the thin summer-clothing I had retained my feet were bare, and the stunted reeds and broken shells made them bleed the while, I hurried to and fro, now looking earnestly on some distant rock which, islanded in the sands, bore for a moment a deceptive appearance now with flashing eyes reproaching the murderous ocean for its unutterable cruelty.
One never sees Summer-clothing or mosquitoes in San Francisco but they can be found in Sacramento. Not always and unvaryingly, but about one hundred and forty-three months out of twelve years, perhaps. Flowers bloom there, always, the reader can easily believe people suffer and sweat, and swear, morning, noon and night, and wear out their stanchest energies fanning themselves.
One never sees Summer-clothing or mosquitoes in San Francisco but they can be found in Sacramento. Not always and unvaryingly, but about one hundred and forty-three months out of twelve years, perhaps. Flowers bloom there, always, the reader can easily believe people suffer and sweat, and swear, morning, noon and night, and wear out their stanchest energies fanning themselves.
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