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Updated: June 22, 2025
Breakfast in a cañon by the side of a stream—the odor of pines.... The little bobbing doors went to behind me and there I stood in floor three, the stale gas and metal smell ... the whirs of the belts ... the jarring of the presses.... Next to me this glorious morning sat a snip of a little thing all in black—so pretty she was, so very pretty.
The glassy note of the frogs was like a falling of something small and pointed upon a sheet of crystal. The whirs of the insects suggested a ceaselessly active mentality. The faint cries of the birds dropped down like jewels slipping from the trees. And suddenly she felt that she was as nothing in the vastness and the complication of the night.
If they are hungry, plates of soup will be brought to them on the bridge, and the North Sea will attend to its salting for them. Frequently this "meal" is interrupted by some announcement from the watch, such as: "Smoke on the horizon off the port bow." Then so we are told: The commander drops his plate, shouts a short, crisp command, and an electric alarm whirs inside the egg-shell.
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