The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1891-05-24

on deck. Mrs. Poodle, haunted by Hat
teras, had sent him out to see if ''there
was any danger" for it is evident that
Mrs. Poodle is dictatress OF the domestic
empire Mr.. Poodle assembled to the
hurricane deck, looked nervously to lee
ward, and just then an old passenger
salt standing by, who had during the en-
tire passage comprehended and enjoyed
the Poddletonian breads, remarked,
This is nothing to what we shall have
by morning" This shot sent Poodle be-
low. This morning at breakfast the pair
looked harassed and fatigued.
The great question now agitating the
mind of this floating community is,
''Shall we reach the New York pier at
the foot of Canal street by Saturday
noon?" If we do there is for us all long
life, prosperity and happiness; if we do
not it is desolation and misery. For
Monday is New Years day. On Sunday
we may not be able to leave the city; to
be forced to stay in New York over Sun
day is d dreadful Thoughts for solitary
contemplation. We study and turn it
over in our minds for hours as we pace
the deck. We live over and over again
the land journey to our hearthstones at
Boston, Syracuse and Cincinnati. We
meet in thought our long expectant rela-
tives, so that at last our air castles be-
come stale and monotonous, and we fear
that the reality may be robbed of half
its anticipated pleasure from being SO
often lived over in imagination.
Nine o'clock Friday evening. The ex-
element increases. Barnegat Light is
in sight. Half the cabin passengers are
up all night, indulging in Improbable
talk and WEAKNESS, merely because we
are so near home Four o'clock, and the
faithful engine stops, the cable rattles
overheard, and everything is still. We
are at anchor off Staten Island. By the
first laggard streak of winters dawn |
am on the hurricane deck. l am curious
to see my native north. 1t comes by de-
grees out of the cold blue fog on either
side of the bay. Miles of houses, spotted
with patches of bushy looking woodland
-bushy in appearance to Californian,
whose oaks grow large and widely apart
from each other, as in an English park.
There comes shrieking and grGaning
and believing of steam whistles from
the monster city nine miles away. Soon
we weigh anchor and move up toward
it. Tugs dart fiercely about, or labor
iously puff with heavily laden vessels
in tow. Stately ocean steamers surge
past, outward bound. We become a
mere fragment of the mass of floating
life.
We near the foot of Canal street.
There is great deal of shouting and
bawling and counter shouting and
counter bawling, with expectant faces
on the wharf, and recoglntions from
shore to steamer and from steamer to
shore. The young woman who tiirted
SO ardently with the young Californian
turns out to be married, and that bust
ness looking, middle aged man on the
pier is her husband. Well, l never.
Why, you are slow, my friend, says in
ward reflection. You are not versed in
the customs Of the east. At last the
gangway plank is flung out. We walk
On shore. 1t is now eighteen years since
that little floating world society cemented
by month; association scattered for
ever from each others sight at the Canal
street pier PRENTICE MILFORD.