the following are the eloquent and remarkably interesting memoranda of the next four days:
21. At dusk anchored a short distance from land at a place called Telchac. How stupid I was to come in this miserable boat!
22. Stopped at Sacrisan, and again at Hacun. Don't know why.
23. Stopped at Dilan. Wish the water would stop. Head wind. Heavy thunder storm. Very rough. Extra sick. Wish I was dead!
24. Stopped at Holbox. Feel a little better. Ate a cracker. Fine weather.
To those who have been seasick I need offer no apology for such a diary; they will fully understand that I am not responsible.
Holbox is a picturesque Indian village whose inhabitants make a living by catching turtle to send to British Honduras, where the demand is constant. Near the shore there were turtles in pens. For a moment we feared that some of those creatures, weighing 500 pounds each, might be added to our freight; and to see them on the deck, on their backs, their flaps sewn together, and gasping for breath, is enough—almost—to make one jump overboard. The huts of the fishermen are a long distance from the shore, and the indolent natives positively refused to bring water to the sloop, though we had stopped expressly for that, being much in need.
Charming as the village looks at a distance, it has
