It would have been pleasant to our friends to see stockings on our
door handles and to witness the contents. Mine had a colored-letter
drawing of the words, “The Lord is my Shepherd;” a long shoe-case made
of duck, bound with green; a small muslin bag filled with lumps of
white sugar, marked, Cape Horn confectionary. The captain had a green
necktie, made in a region where neckties are not often devised, the
materials, however, unquestionably from “Chandler’s” or “Hovey’s;”
also a pen-wiper; the mates had some articles of needle work, and
chains made in part of bloom raisins which came the other day from
the brig Hazard. Fresh raisins off Cape Horn are a greater curiosity
and luxury than friends at home can suppose. The captain’s presents
to the donors of these gifts were, a jar of pickles and a bottle of
olives; mine were destined to be for some time useless, there being no
shops in this region; but the small pieces of gold expressed a good
intention. The afternoon was spent by a party, including the captain
and first mate, around the stove in the forward cabin listening to one
of Dickens’ Christmas Carols, they having already enjoyed six volumes
of his works in beguiling some dreary afternoons; also, in amusing
themselves with the exercise of “bean bags,” on deck. When it was dark
we were entertained with narratives of expedients which were used in
preparing the presents, the emptying of the rag bag and the search
among its contents for materials, the difficulty of standing, of going
about and even of sitting at work while the ship was playing her antics
of position; the devices by the principal actors in hanging up the
presents so as to elude detection, pretending unusual wakefulness in
sitting up beyond midnight and trying to persuade the captain that he
needed sleep; and especially the attempt to keep awake beyond the hour
when the mate would come down to the pantry to refresh himself with a
bite of salt beef and pie. The amusements of the day ended with putting
down the cabin light and standing at the window to see and hear the
boatswain perform his Christmas Carol, sitting in his little room, his
feet on his bunk level with his head, he singing, “Shall we gather at
the river?” his pipe in his hand lifted to his mouth for a few whiffs
at the end of each verse, the pipe seemingly performing the part of the
customary interlude on the musical instrument at church. So we had our
Christmas presents where a year ago we little expected. Last evening
we observed our custom of having Milton’s Christmas Hymn read to us,
the captain being appointed the reader. It was very dark and stormy at
noon, but we had a merry Christmas.
* * * * *
Dec. 26. It rains, and there is the thickest fog which it seems
to me I ever saw. I groped my way into the bows, to look, as a
transcendentalist would say, “into the invisible.” A sailor was in the
bows alone, leaning against the forestay, wrapped in his oil-cloth
coat, looking out for any vessel which might be passing. His watch was
for two hours, a dreary, uninteresting service. He was a young man,
full of zeal to go aloft, among the first to venture out to the weather
earring, to leap upon the swinging board over the side or stern in
painting. None seem so happy as the boys of the crew; but this duty of
watching in a fog, of a cold day, has as little excitement in it as any
thing in a sailor’s routine.