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A VERY TALL STORY.—THE FIRST IMPRESSIONS.—A SIDE VIEW OF
SEA-SICKNESS.—THE SIGHT OF THE OCEAN.—LAND AT LAST AND GLAD OF IT.
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[SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCE OF THE COURIER.]
PHILADELPHIA, Feb. 20, 1876.—The ocean is a greatly exaggerated affair.
About four years ago, my friend Charles I. Graves and myself were
sitting on a country fence, in Floyd County, after the manner of
lizards, drinking in the sunshine, when a wagon containing a small box
wheeled past us. It had hardly got abreast us when my friend dropped
from his comfortable perch as if he were shot, and rushed to the wagon.
Then ensued a remarkable scene. You have all seen a well-bred country
dog meet a city dog on some green highway. You know with what hurried
circumspection he smells the stranger at all points. So did my friend
approach the little square box on the wagon. He sniffed at it as if “he
would draw his soul through his nose.” I examined the ugly little box
closely. It was marked